~ Chapter 23: King of the Mad ~

Roland swallowed tightly, shivering into his fur-lined coat.

“You alright, m’lord?” One of his guards, a stout orange fox, asked him, shifting in place.

“Fine, fine.” Roland replied. “Let’s get this over with.” And he began to press forward. The ground at the front of the makeshift fort had been cleared of snow, and the dirt beneath was hard as concrete. Behind Roland and his six guards was nothing but dead trees and stark white ice, and ahead, Slaugh Morningbreaker’s camp.

They were only a few days travel across the border, and so Morningbreaker had constructed a kind of temporary base of operations. It was remarkably well constructed for something intended to be impermanent, and Roland found himself admiring the construction. The walls were high and made of stripped log, peaked with spikes carved from the log ends themselves. Behind the walls, large flags billowed in the chilled wind, displaying sigils and emblems Roland neither recognised nor cared to. Several dozen plumes of smoke wafted into the sky from within the walls of the fort, and he could hear the tell-tale bustle of a military camp on the air.

They were expected, of course, and so the gates were rolled inward upon their approach, aching like an old man as three men dragged each side apiece. As Roland and his escort crossed the threshold, he couldn’t help but feel all the northern eyes closely watching him. He was no scholar of the Northwest and its tradition, but he knew enough to know he wasn’t welcome. The people up here held a great deal of resentment for the southern nations. Roland couldn’t exactly blame them, as from their perspective, the Union constantly ‘invaded’ their lands, claiming huge square acres as their own. These became either outposts or prison mines, and the Union had no qualms about sending unruly local northmen to the same mines they sent their own dredges.

He was a representative of a foreign power, and to many eyes, a tyrannical one. There was rumour that prior to the hundred, the northwest had attempted to unify itself once before, claiming its own independence. The stories differed due to who was telling them, but one core part remained the same; the Ferrin Union had smashed them to pieces.

I should make a note of this base. Roland mused, hiking up a set of blue stone steps with a huff, his breath misting before his whiskers. A strong military fort this close to the Union’s borders was simply unacceptable, at least if this Slaugh Morningbreaker wanted to be taken seriously in his bid for allegiance.

But who would Roland tell? Prince Halder? The fox pushed him to his knees every time they spoke alone. High Chaplain Wrast? Oh yes, perfect, the lord-ruler of the Inquisition, who had happily used Roland as a pawn whenever it suited him. He could consider speaking with the king himself, but the man was beyond senile, his brain little more than tepid soup after decades of constant soothing. Claude Morgan? The man who had--

No.

Roland banished the thought, rounding a corner and passing by a huge bonfire. The heat was palpable, and he savoured it as they strode past. Massive cuts of meat hung from spits near the edge, ten or so northmen squatted over logs around them. Roland regarded the group, and they him. Each man had a large weapon, an axe or a greatsword and one with some spiked hammer thing. They were a diverse bunch, mostly wolves, but peppered with foxes, bears, a goat, and one person Roland couldn’t identify the species of. He gave them a polite nod. The group just glared back.

Typical.

“Carls.” A crisp voice said, causing Roland to jump with surprise. He realised he’d stopped walking, and when he glanced to his side, a lean jackal in a high-collared coat met his eyes. The man wore a small armoury on his person; two axes at his hips; a bow and half-spear on his back; and four daggers strapped across his chest. His eyes were a piercing crystalline yellow, and Roland noticed several of his teeth had been replaced with shining steel fangs.

Roland raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected the so-called Madlands to be socially advanced enough for dentistry.

“What?” Roland said after a moment, still confused. Was carls a name?

The jackal jerked his chin toward the group around the bonfire. “Those are Morningbreaker’s highest ranking carls. Men what lead his armies, his most trusted.” The jackal spoke a decent Union Common, though his words sounded clipped and sporadic.

Roland spared the carls another prolonged glance, then looked away. Slaugh’s most trust, and his most savage. He thought.

“I’m sorry, you are?” Roland asked, meeting those yellow eyes once again. How had the guards let some random northmen just waltz up like this? He made a note to dock their pay for the day.

“Jarst Knack, at yer service.” The jackal replied, cocking a grin and throwing a half-hearted salute to the wind. “I’m one of his majesty’s foremost... assistants, you might say.” His tongue darted out, licked at his lips. “A fixer of problems, don’t have a proper title yet. You understand.”

A killer.

“Pleasure.” Roland grumbled.

“His morning-ship sent me down to fetch you.” Jarst said, resting a paw on one of his daggers. It wasn’t a threatening motion, carrying the air of a practiced movement, something he no-doubt did when he relaxed. A move like that in the Union was likely to see you on the sword-end of a duel, but Roland forced himself to ignore it.

“And is that an official title of address?” Roland cocked an eyebrow. Jarst only laughed, turning in place and leading on up the steps. Roland gave his guards a pointed look, one he hoped said ‘what do I pay you for?’, and then followed on.

Though, technically speaking, the crown paid them.

Regardless. Roland thought, rolling his eyes.

Jarst led him to a round, finely cleared staircase of stone bricks, laid right into the hillside. Roland imagined that if the Union were to construct such a stalwart base such like this, they’d have spent a week prior to any construction having labourers move the soil around, making it nice and uniform, flat and controlled. It seemed the northmen had simply built their base around the quirks of the landscape, going up and down as did the land.

“All the boys are excited to ‘ave someone so important visiting.” Jarst replied, waving his paw in the air. Roland saw dark eyes watching him from inside the tents and shanties, and of all the words he knew to describe the expressions, ‘excited’ was not one of them.

“How should I address the king?” Roland asked. This deal was to solidify Morningbreaker’s legitimacy as ruler of the northwest, and the reports he’d been given indicated that Roland should treat the warlord as he would any monarch. If things went well, the Union would lend him their aid in securing the rest of the Madlands.

After Morningbreaker helped them end the hundred.

Another protracted war. Roland thought, sighing as they reached a long string of large tents. Out with the old, in with the new. After all, it’s only peasants dying, what do we nobles care?

“Hmm, good question.” Jarst replied, scratching his chin, loose bits of dandruff flaking free. Roland frowned. “I’d say, politely. Slaugh’s a good laugh, but he’s quite a temper at times.”

“No, I mean--” Roland stopped, sighed. “Never mind.”

The ensemble reached the largest tent at the end of the strip, pausing in place. Behind him, Roland heard his guards snap to attention.

Oh now they know how to do their job, eh?

“They’ll need to wait out here.” Jarst said, eyeing the six foxes.

“Fair enough.” Roland replied, glancing back. “Men, to a side! Await my return at rest.” The foxes saluted in unison, before shuffling to one side of the road and standing in a relaxed parade rest, paws clasped behind their backs. Roland returned his gaze to Jarst. “Lead on.”

The jackal nodded once, then sauntered through the slit in the tent’s entryway. It was like a circus pavilion, nearly the size of a house. Roland followed on in, warmth wafting pleasurably over him as the flap fell shut behind. Though relieving, it was somewhat nauseating to experience such a change from the frigid air outside.

Jarst threw up a paw, clearing his throat, and bowing. “Presenting, the royal lay-son of the Ferrin Union, Sir Roland... uh...” Jarst paused, glancing back with eyebrows raised.

Roland groaned. “Estoc. And I’m a Lord Earl, not a sir.” He bit his tongue, but couldn’t stop the words. “And its liaison.”

“Well. Rude.” Jarst replied, and turned back to face the throne. “Presenting. Sir-Lord-Earl Roland Estoc, Ferrin Union lee-ay-son, here for parlay with His Mad Eminence, Slaugh Morningbreaker, First of his Blood, Uniter of the Damned, and Patron Saint of the Insane Masses.”

His Mad Eminence. Roland wondered if it was a bad joke. Frankly, this whole endeavour felt like a bad joke, one he was the butt of. He bowed anyway, tilting his head up to examine the throne.

It was a relatively simple thing, constructed of dark wood and adorned with ribbon. If the Union were to, Triumvirate forbid, take their king out in the field, there was no doubt in Roland’s mind some group of poor sods would have to cart around the gaudy steel throne he loved so much. Slaugh Morningbreaker’s throne was deep seated, and the man within it a huge animal of a king, exuding power and authority.

Morningbreaker was a dark-skinned warthog, with thick tusks protruding from his mouth, a wide knife clutched loosely in one hand. He wore thick white furs, accented with red and purple trim, a shining silver buckle clasping them around his collar. He had no crown, but he lounged in the throne in the comfortable, eased sort of way that kings accustomed to rule did.

At least, the way competent kings did.

“Your Highness.” Roland said, finally straightening.

“Sir-Lord-Earl lay-son of the Ferrin Union, Roland...” Slaugh paused. “Estoc.” Roland sucked in a breath, unsure how to react. The warthog let out a deep laugh, the chuckles shaking his whole belly. He was a massive man, towering over others even sitting down. He carried a generous band of fat around his belly, though Roland did not fail to notice the bulging muscles within his arms.

“Er, yes, your... eminence?” Should he have added ‘mad’ to that?

“May I address you as Roland?” The warthog asked. Roland paused. It was improper, but nothing about this sham-kingdom was proper, and he wasn’t even sure that was a bad thing. He gave a terse nod. Slaugh smiled broadly. “And so, we have negotiating to accomplish? You have the accords with you?”

“Yes, your highness.” Roland replied, retrieving the scroll-case from his back. Slaugh’s guards flinched as he moved, but the warthog waved them down. Ignoring this, Roland undid the top of the case, sliding up a rolled up strip of parchment. Jarst stepped forward, and Roland handed the roll to him, watching as the jackal ferried it over to the king.

Morningbreaker took the accords delicately, unfurled them, and began to read. In the Union, the king never read. It was seen as a weakness, as a failing, though from what ancient custom it has arisen form Roland wasn’t certain. In the Union, the kings’ scribes dictated to him, and for the last few years it was without need anyway, as Mordecai Niven was so far gone he’d agree to anything said with a smile.

“Hmm.” Slaugh murmured, after some time. “The Union wishes to keep their slave mines, then?” Slaugh’s voice was deep and baritone, powerful enough that Roland felt it in his gut. Despite this, he spoke with the air of a learned man, each word properly enunciated, perfectly selected for its use.

“Correct, your--”

“Bah.” Slaugh waved a hand, rings jingling. “I have no use for formality here, little cat.” He paused. “I have some amendments.”

“Oh?” Roland asked, forgetting himself. It had been expected, and Wrast and the prince had given him a few powers of negotiation. Still, he wondered what kind bizarre request this huge warlord would demand of them. Perhaps all the meat in the kingdom? Or half their women? Maybe he would demand a personal guard, or a home in Hieron? Roland braced himself.

“Every Northwestern man or woman inside those mines must be set free, upon my signing. The order must be given immediately - this is non-negotiable for our assistance in ending your war.”

“Your highness.” Roland began, stuttering. “All treaty agreements are to be settled after the unification. If Niverron is liberated, perhaps then--”

“Stop. Your masters wish this of me so they might take it away, but I will not help those who yet imprison my countrymen as slaves.” Slaugh said, proffering his knife and waving it. “Lord Estoc. Our lands, once beautiful and unspoiled, have been raped and pillaged by your monarchy for little over a century now. Our rightful valuables and riches have been stripped from our lands in order to feed the ever-hungry beast that is your hundred years. After Niverron, after peace, then things such as stipends and taxation may begin. But alas, not only have your nobles stripped us of our wealth, they have stolen us of our people to help claim it!”

“Your--”

“Don’t interrupt.” Jarst said, laying a paw on one of his axes. Roland swallowed tightly, suddenly feeling that his guards were very far away.

They can anything to me, and they know it. The Union can’t fight a war on two fronts, if I die, they’ll capitulate. And would that be so bad? He nodded.

“Consider every member of my camp, indeed, of my army.” Slaugh continued, waving his knife as if there’d been no interruption. “They have all lost someone to those blasted mines. We all have a friend, a brother, a wife, stolen to dig tin and iron from the poison ground so your fucking Union can use it to murder those wolves. Do you know what working in the soil does to your mind, Lord Estoc?”

“I...” Roland paused, glancing to Jarst, who nodded. “I do not, your highness.” He frowned. The mines were for Union prisoners, primarily. The only reason they would take a northerner, was if one of them had been caught trying to steal or attack the camp in some way.

But that can’t have happened enough that they all know someone detained?

Slaugh shifted in place. “It destroys it. Completely. The madness, the plague, it comes from the ground, from the blood-stained rock your century of death has unleashed.” Slaugh paused, cocking his head. “I see your confusion, the question on your lips, speak it.”

“Well, your eminence...” Roland began, shifting awkwardly. “How have you lost so many? It is my understanding that only those who would war against our outposts are condemned there. We have no authority to police your people, and it is our own scum we condemn to labour.”

“Authority?” Slaugh asked, another deep laugh overtaking him. He shook his head, as if explaining something very simple to a kitten. “There is no authority here, no crime committed. The criminals and vagrants you send here die within the year, they have no conditioning for the harsh lands we call home. No one can work the earth so viciously without consequence. The mines production fell, yet your king demanded more, always more. And so foxes beset the land, our land. You fell upon us like a plague yourself, raiding our camps and stealing our weak. You tried to make slaves of us, and prayed we would be grateful for the chance.”

“That’s not true.” Roland replied, regretting it immediately.

“You name me a liar?” And Slaugh cocked his head. Jarst inched forward. “I understand this is an unpleasant revelation, but it is the truth, little cat.”

Roland swallowed. It seemed impossible, it seemed barbaric. Stealing northmen to use as slaves? Would the Union dare? He considered the King’s Trust, Marricus Baine’s merry band of soldiers than roamed Union Land, burning and slaughtering any village beset with plague in an attempt to stymy the spread. No, Roland decided, it definitely seemed possible. It made sense even, and what reason would Morningbreaker have for lying?

Slavery. Roland felt acrid bile rising in his throat. Slavery was illegal in the Union, an abhorrence decried by the Triumvirate itself.

But we are not in the Union. He thought.

If it was true however, would setting the Northwestern slaves free destroy the Union economy? How large a percentage of the mineworkers toiling in their camps were captured slaves? Wrast and Bain would certainly despise this agreement. After all, any business would fall to pieces if you took more than sixty-percent of its workforce away, would he be condemning his kingdom to a slow death by agreeing to this?

Roland decided he didn’t care.

“Done.” He said. “Have your scribes add it to the accords, I’ll sign the amendment myself.” It already bore the signatures of the king and the council, so long as Roland recognised it the agreement would stand.

Unless they were willing to start another war.

Slaugh clapped. “Excellent!” He said. “I have a few other, lesser demands. A northern embassy in Hieron, and you may have one here if you wish. And of course, talk of taxation for the mines spoils shall begin after Astmoor is put to bed, but they will begin.”

“Of course.” Roland dipped his chin. “What kind of aid can you bring us?”

“Right to it.” Slaugh began. “I have nine-thousand men waiting at the edge of the border.” Roland blanched, but the warlord ignored him. “Of them, six hundred are tried and trusted thralls. There are seven of my best carls leading, and all are well armed and prepared. We will move upon the signing of these accords and the freeing of our people, going due south, circumventing the Union capital and attacking Niverron from the west.” He grinned. “All good things come from the west.”

Roland nodded. He was no strategist, but any major force from Hieron was all but forced to attack the city from the north due to the Lake of the Three – it was the north where Nurjan and his Astmoor forces had focused the brunt of their scouts and defence. Such a large attack from the west would confuse and scatter them.

Roland cleared his throat. “The Union has a force of three thousand stationed nearby,” the remnants of his Army of Thieves. “They may augment your attack however you see fit.”

“A northern distraction.” Slaugh mused. Roland knew what he was saying: archers’ fodder. He still didn’t care.

He just wanted this war to end. Then he could go somewhere else, maybe Scarden or Wrethalia, get away from this cursed place, these damned people. His chest was a broiling mixture of emotion, from dark betrayal from Salem, to white hot rage at Claude.

It simply wasn’t believable; it made no sense that sweet—

No, stop. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Blood. Pouring over an orange furred chest, a gurgling plea.

He’d said it himself. He was the traitor. He was a foreigner.

It made sense. Let it go, why can’t you?

Roland felt his paw close around the boy’s throat.

Stop.

“Lord Estoc?” Slaugh asked. Roland opened his eyes, sniffed back tears. “Are you... alright?”

“Yes. I am no strategist, your highness.” He gave a slight bow. “I am sure you would know best. If you wish to confer with our own generals, I can arrange them to depart Hieron to meet your men on their journey.”

Slaugh gave a polite smile. “I am sure that won’t be necessary, little cat.” He waved to the jackal. “Jarst, show our guest to his rooms.”

“At once.” The jackal said, dipping his head. He walked off, and Roland took that as sign to leave, Slaugh already deeply engrossed in conversation with a nearby scribe, the accords splayed over his lap.

The air was like a knife as Roland pushed outside, lungs sucking in the freezing chill. His men visibly relaxed as they saw him, and as he and Jarst passed on by he gestured for them to follow.

“Your men have a few singular tents in the lower camp, only a few minutes from your own.” Jarst said. “I’m sure you’ll find our lodgings to your liking, if not, well, I guess you should tell someone.”

Roland grunted, too tired to think. He hated kings, even straightforward, honest-presenting ones like Morningbreaker. Truth be, he was just fucking sick of royalty.

Jarst showed him to a tent, and before the jackal could say anything more Roland shoved inside. The interior was warm and smelt of cinnamon, a small fire in the centre leaving smoke to flutter up and out a narrow vent in the peak. He had a spacious bedroll piled high with furs, a tiny desk, and a chest for his things.

Ignoring them all, Roland stripped all but his underclothes off, falling on the bed and crawling beneath the furs. He shook, wishing someone were with him.

He wondered what it would be like to be a man like Jarst. Armed to the teeth, obviously capable, fighting for something he believed in. Roland wondered what it would be like to live in a place ruled by a true, competent king. A king dedicated to liberating his people and freeing his land. Instead, Roland beckoned at the heels of a council of self-important politicians.

Still, he knew it was a show. He hadn’t forgotten Mother san Nostrum, telling him and Claude and no of all the awful things Breeze Czeslaw had done for Morningbreaker. He knew of the bloodshed the Union forces faced whenever they had fought with the warthogs’.

Still. At least Slaugh could keep a sentence together.

Roland closed his eyes again, wishing the thoughts would not come. He begged the memories away, pleaded with himself not to remember, not to feel it.

But he did. Blood. Pleas. Betrayal. Tears came.

And, sobbing in that foreign place, alone beneath a pile of warm blankets, he eventually slept.