CHAPTER 247: ANTE SANGUINEM

Ante Sanguinem

Midday - Canardia Castle

Valerie and Audrey sat inside the castle’s private hall reserved for the lord’s family, chatting and gossiping about matters within the castle and beyond. They had just finished lunch, and soft murmurs and occasional giggles now filled the place. Audrey looked beautiful and elegant in her Centurian traditional dress, which resembled a kimono. Its glossy black fabric was accented with golden floral embroidery. The belly area was made of fine white linen, designed to be worn a little loose for comfort.

Today was Valerie’s turn to accompany the Lady, as her pregnancy had progressed and she no longer felt up to walking around the castle, which naturally had many ladders to navigate. Still, someone had to keep her company; otherwise, with the Lord occupied by the horse race event and ceremony, she would have no one to talk to.

Usually, a woman of her rank would be surrounded by ladies-in-waiting and maids, but Audrey was never truly fond of their company, especially those from Midlandia who came from a vastly different upbringing. She preferred the presence of her family. So Tanya, Arryn, Ingrid, and Valerie gladly took turns keeping her company and lifting her spirits during the long, quiet hours.

"I really want to be there," Audrey said, referring to the horse race that had been ongoing for the third day.

"Maybe I can help. I know people who know how to carry a litter," Valerie suggested.

"No, anything but that." Audrey shook her head before explaining, "I'd look pompous, like some spoiled noble lady, especially with a belly this round."

"But you are a baroness," Valerie remarked, stifling her giggle.

"But I'm not spoiled," Audrey countered, and the two giggled.

All the talking made Audrey feel parched, and she took a goblet from the table, struggling a bit because of her pregnancy and letting out a soft groan.

"Something wrong?" Valerie asked attentively.

"No, it's fine. Just the belly is getting too large." She drank her goblet of water and lamented, "It's been so long since I tasted mead."

Valerie looked at her tenderly. She dared not get pregnant due to her human physiology, so this was probably the closest she could come to experiencing it.

With care, the Lady set down her goblet and shifted in place. Though the room wasn’t hot, a light sheen of sweat clung to her skin. "Is this what they say, that the mother shares the heat from the baby?"

Concerned, Valerie rose to check on her and found nothing alarming. "I'm not that knowledgeable, but yes, sweating should be normal and even healthy. Just avoid wearing damp clothing."

The Lady gave a small nod and eased back against the cushions, adjusting the pillow behind her for support. She had only just found a comfortable spot when she muttered in surprise, "Oh!"

Valerie had nearly settled into her seat but stopped mid-motion. "What's wrong?" she asked, rising again to assist.

"This is embarrassing, but I need to go to the toilet again," Audrey admitted.

Valerie giggled softly and took Audrey's hand. She was about to lift her up when Audrey’s face suddenly turned pale.

“Wait, something’s wrong.” Her tone grew serious.

“Huh?” Valerie blinked, but then noticed how the padded chair had darkened.

“Did I just pee?” Audrey asked, her face red with embarrassment and damp with sweat.

“Don’t worry about it.” Valerie gently eased her back into the seat, doing her best to hide the flicker of panic rising inside her.

She turned toward the door and could no longer hold it in, raising her voice, “Margo! Get the midwife, physician, and Lady Arryn. The lady’s water just broke!” ṝ𝐚ꞐΟ𝐛Èṡ

“My water?” Audrey echoed, eyes wide, before muttering, “But I don’t feel anything...”

Margo entered, froze momentarily in visible panic, then dashed out again, shouting, “Get the midwife, physician, and Lady Arryn! The lady’s water has broken!”

Still holding Audrey’s hand, Valerie added, “And someone tell Lord Lansius—Lady Audrey is in labor.”

***

Past Midday - East Nicopola Mountain

The battering ram maintained pressure and continued its relentless assault. The defenders were growing desperate. They tried everything. The ballista could not be depressed enough to aim at the battering ram directly below, so they targeted a crossbowman in the field instead. The massive bolt tore through the air and smashed into a pavise shield, sending it flying and slamming into the ground with brutal force. Somehow, the crossbowman survived, dazed and with a broken arm, but alive.

Separated, almost isolated inside the wooden structure, the six-man battering ram crew pressed on with ruthless efficiency. Strike after strike, they hammered the bulwark, and each time the structure shuddered violently, sending up clouds of dust, loose pebbles, and splinters of wood.

Around them, the Nicopolan crossbowmen watched, fingers resting on triggers. The defenders no longer rose above the bulwark, and only sparse countershots came in return.

The mountain folk, realizing their position was no longer defensible, began dismantling the precious ballista, racing against time as the bulwark groaned and shifted with every blow, its integrity rapidly failing.

It wasn’t long before the defenders ceased their resistance altogether and abandoned their position entirely.

Sir Servius rose from the boulder he and his staff had been using as cover. He saw with his own eyes that the moment he had been waiting for had arrived. "Get the ladders out!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, pulling and waving his sword with his left hand.

The vanguard rushed forward, supported by crossbowmen who covered their advance. They reached the base of the bulwark, planted their ladders, and climbed swiftly. At the top, they encountered no resistance. The mountain men were too occupied with trying to retrieve their ballista. The Nicopolans descended upon them with vengeance for all the suffering they had endured over the past few days.

"Stop the ram!" Sir Servius instructed, fearing the structure might collapse as more of his men made the climb.

His signalman blew the bugles, and the rest of the troops surged forward, throwing down their shields and pavises as they climbed.

Inside the battering ram, the six crewmen collapsed onto the ground, breathing heavily, and burst into laughter. Their role was over, sooner and deadlier than they had expected. None of them had anticipated that the mountain people would have a ballista.

One of the crew made his way to the rear, unlatched the door, and kicked it open, letting in a rush of cool air.

From behind, three soldiers approached with shields raised overhead, shielding themselves from the flames still smoldering on the ram’s roof. They carried water skins and quickly began dousing the fire, slamming it with sticks or whatever else they could grab.

“Do you think we’re going to use this again?” one of the crew asked as they stepped outside to catch their breath.

“With them having a ballista like that, we’ll need a bigger one,” another replied.

Their leader was unconvinced. "With the steep mountain path, I doubt we can even use this again."

Their victory today was certain, but tomorrow was anyone’s guess. If experience had taught them anything, it was that the mountain people or the smugglers were a tough nut to crack. None of them would be surprised to find another bulwark waiting just ahead. But stubbornness ran deep in the Gray Skull Legion, especially at the top.

Sir Servius was infamous for surviving the impossible. Rumor had it that even the Black Lord had been impressed enough to knight him after he endured one too many close calls, each leaving him with fewer limbs and more scars.

Above the shattered bulwark, his men returned and raised their hands in victory. Cheers erupted, and swords were thrust skyward in triumph. The banner of the Gray Skull rose above the smoke and dust, rippling in the wind as the vanguard roared to the delight of their legion.

It was a brief but welcome respite, as soon they would need to dismantle the structure enough to allow the supply train and the rest of the army to pass. Advance troops had already pushed ahead, pursuing the fleeing mountain clans. The war for the Eastern Mountains continued.

***

Early Evening - Lansius

The racetrack building and the arena for the inauguration ceremony were grander than anyone had expected. The circular track and the wooden tribune constructed for paying spectators were impressive and sturdy, despite being intended only as temporary structures. The entire arena could easily accommodate fifteen thousand, with most standing in open areas near the racetrack. At full capacity, it could hold twice that number without a serious risk of a stampede.

Fences had been set up in layers to manage crowd movement, and dedicated channels allowed spectators to enter and exit the arena through hundreds of access points. Sir Omin, the most capable administrator in House Lansius, had worked with the guilds and the Office of Works to ensure everything ran smoothly and safely.

But today, it was all for naught. Despite the intervention of the troops, the fighting that had started on the southern side had spread, and now over ten thousand people had taken over the entire arena. The surrounding areas were also in disarray, as there were not enough guards to contain or control such a number.

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Lansius watched from the elevated podium until it became clear they had lost control of the situation.

He turned and made his way back to the camp through a secured corridor and wooden steps, trying to think of a solution.

At least their effort had not been in vain. The rioters had driven out many who had wanted no part in the violence, and the cavalry had courageously secured a path to evacuate thousands of innocent spectators.

With Sterling and the guards beside him, Lansius continued toward the fortified camp. It was alive with activity; everyone was now armored and armed, guarding their posts and quietly observing the situation outside. The few lighter horses still inside had been brought out and stood ready near the stables, prepared for messenger duties, reconnaissance, or even assault if needed.

As soon as he stepped into the open, the camp commander and his staff hastily approached and reported, “My Lord, things aren’t looking good, but we’ve done our best to prevent further unrest.”

“I can see that. It was the right call to send the cavalry. You just saved thousands of innocents,” Lansius said evenly. He then glanced at the tall wooden watchtower and asked, “Have you informed the city?”

“Already done. Canardia’s main gates are now sealed, leaving only the smaller ones open, with individual checks in place,” the commander replied.

Lansius knew it would cause delays and long lines as local spectators made their way home, but there was no other choice. The situation was critical. Ten thousand had just rioted, and the unrest could easily spread to the rest of the crowd still arriving from neighboring towns and cities.

Amid the chaos, Lansius was surprised to see Dame Daniella and her group.

"My Lord," she greeted him gracefully.

Lansius paused. Her long brown hair was disheveled, but she appeared unharmed. "Dame, I didn’t expect to see you here."

"I was just passing through when the masses started to fight and block the roads into and out of the city. We rushed to the camp along with several dozen spectators who were also escaping the violence," she reported.

Exhaling deeply, Lansius asked, "Do you know what’s going on?"

"I only heard people shouting that someone drew blood first, and how they must show the fury of the oppressed against the nobles."

Such words struck Lansius as odd. "The nobles? And those lines, do you think the intellectuals are behind this?"

Dame Daniella couldn't be sure, but added, "I also heard people shouting about bringing back the old Midlandian ways."

"This could just be a common riot," the commander said. "It might have started as a dispute over gambling that turned bloody and accidentally escalated. By tomorrow, things should return to normal."

Lansius drew a heavy breath before motioning for them to follow him toward the command building. The situation was dire, but he couldn’t risk acting recklessly or too heavy-handedly. With such a large gathering, a riot was always possible, and this might still be a case of mob mentality, not rebellion. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had turned a dagger toward his realm.

Given how deeply unpopular his rule was among the monastery's followers and the nobility, the feeling wasn’t mere paranoia. It was a calculated suspicion.

Suddenly, a commotion from the wall drew their attention. They saw guards pointing and shouting at a large figure climbing up and landing on the wall, only to leap again from the spot.

"It's Francisca," Sterling said, prompting Lansius to turn to the commander. "Tell your men to give her passage."

"On it!" The commander and his adjutant ran toward the wall, shouting commands to clear the way. They knew her well, but in a moment of heightened crisis, even familiar faces could be mistaken for a threat.

The half-beast landed hard from the top of the palisade, sending up a cloud of dust. The impact jolted her frame. It was not her usual graceful leap; she was clearly either burdened or injured. Still, she sprang upright in a single fluid motion and charged toward Lansius' direction.

A fall like that would have shattered most men’s bones, yet she kept running and didn’t stop until she reached Lansius.

"My Lord," Francisca panted, her breath ragged, her garments torn, her white-furred hand smeared with blood. "I’ve brought a person of interest."

With a gentleness that contrasted with her brutal arrival, she eased the man cradled against her chest to the ground.

What they saw stunned them.

"Sir Ebenstein?" Sterling blurted out.

The man dropped to his knees and vomited on the spot. Clearly, Francisca’s high leaps and beastly speed had done more than upset his stomach.

Lansius stared at him. His suspicions were beginning to feel justified, but he still couldn’t grasp the angle of the attack. Turning to Francisca, he asked, "Is he at the center of this chaos?"

"Indeed, but he's innocent, My Lord. He was just defending himself," Francisca reported, drenched in sweat. Sterling offered her his waterskin, which she gratefully emptied in one long gulp.

Lansius and his staff gave the man a moment to recover, while the commander's young assistant knelt beside the rescued man and offered him water.

Sir Ebenstein eventually sat on the ground, revealing fresh wounds and lacerations across his body, blood seeping through his doublet. "I'm innocent," he said after taking a sip, his hands trembling.

Lansius looked to Francisca for confirmation. She nodded firmly. There was no lie.

"I have reason to believe you," Lansius said to him. "Now tell us your story and your role in this foolish riot."

"My Lord," the rescued man began, gathering his composure. "Sir Bielstein and Sir Hohendorf asked me to accompany them to the arena. I declined at first. The court proceeding had exhausted me, and I knew better than to draw attention to myself. But they were persuasive, and I couldn’t refuse, especially after all they spent to set me free."

Lansius turned to his staff. "Who are they?"

Dame Daniella and Sterling were unfamiliar with Midlandian nobility, but the camp commander knew. "They are old Houses from Midlandia. Not the biggest or the most powerful."

"So, likely acting on behalf of another House," Lansius muttered, and Sir Ebenstein's eyes widened in sudden realization.

"Go on. What happened?" Lansius urged.

"I was in the arena. My squire sat next to me. We were both wearing cloaks, seated on the south side with Sir Bielstein and Sir Hohendorf, along with many of their men. We had been watching since the second race. Everything seemed normal until the last race. Then, there was sudden shouting and screaming. They said someone had been stabbed a few rows from where we sat. The crowd grew agitated, and then people began shouting at us. Someone even called out my name, even though I had kept my cloak on the entire time."

Lansius, Dame Daniella, and the commander exchanged glances. All of them quietly agreed this was likely a setup.

Sir Ebenstein was overcome with sorrow. He wept, calling out the name of his squire, likely killed in the chaos. As if to confirm everyone's suspicion, Francisca drew a deep, heavy breath.

"So someone tried to use him to provoke the riot," Dame Daniella reflected.

"Now that we’ve apprehended him, the riots should die down," the commander commented.

"The strange thing is," Francisca said, drawing their attention, "the men who stirred up the masses actually blocked the crowd from reaching him. They all wanted him to escape, and from the looks of it, they were trying to steer him toward the exit that leads to the camp. When I arrived, they were visibly agitated."

Lansius’ gaze turned cold, his tone grim. "They wanted Sir Ebenstein to run into us."

His words drew everyone's focus, and suspicion flickered in their eyes. It might have been conjecture at this point, but the pieces were aligning too neatly for coincidence. The riot was becoming less and less likely to be organic.

...

It was close to sundown, and Lansius sat at the end of a long table while his retinue stood to his left and right, gathering streams of information from every source they could find. A group of guards stationed on the southern side of the arena had just confirmed Francisca and Sir Ebenstein’s account. It was becoming clear that someone was pulling the strings.

In addition, they had received reports via flag signal that a smaller crisis was unfolding within Canardia. Hundreds had moved through the streets, setting fires to several shops and houses before guards and patrols managed to intervene. It appeared to be a coordinated effort to sow chaos.

Lansius had tasked his staff inside the city to handle it swiftly and with great care, instructing them not to cause further panic unless absolutely necessary. With him trapped inside the camp, he had no choice but to trust his retinue.

At the moment, he held direct command over only two hundred men who had withdrawn from their position. The camp also sheltered more than four hundred civilians who had fled the riot. While he could ask them to form a temporary militia, it would likely be met with resistance, as many still did not view this as a riot.

"Do they have any demands?" the camp commander asked the officer delivering the scheduled update from the sentries stationed along the palisade.

"Yes, Commander. They're demanding that Sir Ebenstein be brought out for a people’s trial. They claim the court proceedings were a sham, that secret dealings took place beforehand, and that the Lord released the knight with barely any punishment. They say the guilty plea was just a performance meant to fool the people," the officer reported, speaking as plainly as he had been trained to.

Lansius exhaled sharply, anger rising from deep within. He had never been so insulted by such accusations.

With a firm nod, the camp commander dismissed the officer back to his post.

"I expect no suggestion of surrendering, Sir Ebenstein from my staff," Lansius said coldly.

Dame Daniella nodded thoughtfully and shifted the topic. "What do we know about these rioters so far?"

The camp commander stroked his chin before replying. "We now know they're not from Canardia. Honestly, I believe the only group capable of mobilizing this many people is the followers of the Saint Candidates. If they have a thousand, they could easily lead the rest into rioting. And I suspect they control far more than that."

Dame Daniella nodded. She hadn’t taken part in the Midlandia campaign, but she had heard about the siege of Cascasonne, where Lansius' forces faced nine thousand followers of Saint Nay.

Sterling, speaking as the Orange Skald liaison, offered a different view. "While it’s hard to deny they’re the most likely culprits, the involvement of three knights, and how Sir Ebenstein was targeted, makes me think it’s not that simple."

"True," the commander said. "The role of Sir Bielstein and Sir Hohendorf still puzzles me. Were they simply victims, or are they active participants in this plot?"

Dame Daniella exhaled softly, lost in thought.

"We’ve offended plenty of nobles," Lansius said, drawing his staff's attention. "It’s not hard to imagine some of them colluding with the monastery’s followers."

No one voiced any objection.

Lansius continued, "Have any of you notified Sir Harold and Dietrich?"

"We already sent messengers before the crowd converged on us. They should have reached them by now," the commander reported.

Lansius nodded slowly. Dietrich was stationed in Ploiesta with the vanguard and the new army. Meanwhile, Sir Harold was visiting the minters' village to oversee the new SAR training camp and the Nazo Highlands for the half-breed commune. He would need them if this riot escalated further. "The last count of people in the arena was over thirty thousand, correct?"

"Indeed, My Lord," Dame Daniella confirmed.

"By tomorrow, several thousand more will arrive. Many will cancel due to the riot, but I wager more than a quarter will still come."

"My Lord, do you think they’re already in league with the rioters?" the Dame asked.

Lansius offered a faint smile and admitted, "I have no evidence, if that’s what you seek, but I’m operating on the belief that one should always plan for the worst." He added, "As the commander said, judging by the last war, the followers of Saint Nay could easily number over five thousand. And if they’ve joined forces with other factions, like the nobles, we could be facing a rebellion with a core force of ten thousand, and another ten thousand made up of opportunists and anarchists."

"Ten thousand driving another ten thousand," Dame Daniella said, visibly concerned.

"And more are still coming," the commander added grimly.

Lansius rubbed his forehead. After his men had retreated, they had lost control of the arena and the city’s outskirts. Worse still, they were now blocked from moving freely, as a massive crowd insisted on meeting him. They were likely gullible people, manipulated by unseen hands and sent to be sacrificed. He knew such thinking bordered on paranoia, but it was better to be cautious than to realize too late how deep the trap had been laid.

Unlike his enemies, who could disappear into the masses, Lansius couldn’t afford even a single mistake. One misstep, and he could lose the people's support and trigger a full rebellion.

Reinforcements from Ploiesta would need time to arrive, likely two days. Meanwhile, if the ten or twenty thousand gathered were agitated enough to storm the camp, it would become a nightmare. Yet he couldn’t deploy his castle garrison, as he feared the city and the castle itself were the true targets. At the same time, he couldn’t abandon his men at the camp.

Lansius pressed himself into the hardwood of the chair, as if the stiffness might lend him strength. He had never felt so cornered.

Was taking South Midlandia a mistake?

He could read enemies on the battlefield, but even Lansius could not gauge the depths of the people’s hearts. Were the commoners truly willing to stake their future on a foreign lord like him, or would they return to their old, cruel yet familiar masters? He had no answer, only silence echoing louder in his mind.

Lansius turned to the camp commander and said, "Meet the crowd outside and try to de-escalate the situation. Avoid mentioning Sir Ebenstein. Tell them I am deeply displeased with their actions, but will tolerate them if they return home at once. If they refuse, remind them of the fury I unleashed in Lowlandia."

The commander nodded, committing his words to memory.

Meanwhile, Dame Daniella asked, "And what if that fails to dissuade them?"

"I greatly doubt this will stop them from rioting. Still, we must reduce the number of casualties, because this time I fear I will have to carry out my threat," Lansius said in a low, somber tone, his voice heavy with restraint. "We are facing ten or twenty thousand men. That means just as many grieving families. May the Ancients have mercy on their souls."

***