– If the Viscount is a traitor, then my sword belongs to whoever still fights for the King – Roderick declared, patriotic duty weighing more heavily on him than his exhaustion. – We accept, Duvall.
Alistair let out a long sigh, running a hand over his soot-stained face.
– May the gods forgive us – he muttered to Lucius, who was watching him with wide eyes. – I'd rather be alive and called a traitor in a kingdom that's still breathing than be a very honoured and very dead hero in Solterran territory. Honour doesn't keep the body warm when you're six feet under.
Hector let out a euphoric shout that made the gold in his teeth vibrate, slamming his fist onto the table with such force that the wine leapt from the chalices.
– A wise choice! – the leader of the Brigade bellowed, his eye gleaming with wild joy. – I confess I'd have hated having to kill you lot now; you've got grit, and I like men with grit.
– A lovely sentiment, no doubt – Alistair retorted, sarcasm returning to his veins like blood to a wound. – Almost makes me forget you were a second away from opening up our guts. I feel truly loved.
They were installed not in dungeons, but in chambers within the heart of the fortress, where the luxury was austere but real. Alistair collapsed onto a mattress that, to his surprise, didn't reek of stable musk or damp mud. However, as he stared at the shadows on the ceiling, the comfort felt heavy. They were rebels now, men marked by the very Viscount they had sworn to serve. Sleep came, but it brought with it the echo of Solterran drums.
The rest was brief. The sun was still a pale, grey wound on the horizon when Hector's boots echoed in the corridor, waking them with the brutality of a siege. In the training yard, the group reclaimed their steel; Alistair felt the familiar weight of his two-handed sword, the coldness of the hilt returning a piece of his soul, but his gaze drifted to the wooden racks where the hand-cannons rested – tubes of black iron, ugly and heavy, smelling of sulphur and the end of days.
Hector walked among them, his face swollen but his step firm.
– Steel is for yesterday's duels – Duvall decreed, pointing to the firearms. – To belong to the Brigade, you must master the fire. Iron and powder don't ask a man's father's name or the shine of his crest; they only spit death. Learn to speak the language of thunder, or the Solterran army will turn you to ash before you can even draw those metal needles of yours.
– It's just metal and dust – Alistair murmured, adjusting his stance as if he were about to enter a ball rather than a firing range. – I've mastered steel; I'll master the fire.
The confidence lasted exactly as long as it took the lit match to touch the touch-hole.
The world exploded. It wasn't a shot; it was as if a furious horse had delivered a kick directly to his chest, accompanied by the roar of a dragon with indigestion. The sharp, deafening crack launched Alistair backwards with the violence of a catapult. He flew for two paces before landing with a heavy, wet thud in a puddle of grey mud, legs in the air and his dignity shattered to pieces.
When the thick smoke cleared, Alistair rose from the ground like a spectre out of a chimney. His face, once so concerned with symmetry, was now a mask of black soot, where only the whites of his wide eyes shone through. The ringing in his ears was so loud that the world felt submerged underwater.
– I didn't fire the gun! – he screamed, his voice sounding strange and distant, as if it were coming from another castle. He stood up trembling, pointing an accusing finger at the iron tube still smoking on the ground. – That thing attacked me! It's an object possessed by demons, Hector! It's tavern sorcery! The metal decided, of its own accord, that I was the enemy!
Hector didn't have time to mock him. The laughter beginning to surface on the mercenaries' faces was cut short by a sound that curdled the blood of everyone present. It was a grave, deep, and imposing sound that seemed to make the very walls vibrate: the blast of war trumpets – not the out-of-tune blare of bandits, but the clear, terrifying note of royal authority.
They scrambled to the top of the battlements, lungs burning. When Alistair looked through the embrasures, the soot on his face seemed to turn even paler.
The verdant landscape had been devoured. Before the fortress, the valley was now flooded by a sea of steel and silk. Thousands of spears rose like a deadly forest, and in the centre, snapping in the cold morning wind, unfurled the banners that no man of Aurelia could ignore: a golden lion rampant on a white field with a crimson border.
What stood before them wasn't a local militia, nor a traitorous army Lorenzo might have hired; no, this was the elite garrison of the capital, the teeth and claws of Aureliana itself. The crown had arrived, and it brought no words of peace, but the merciless glint of royal punishment.
Orlan Campius appeared on the parapet like a marble ghost, the morning breeze stirring his cloak. His eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the sea of steel surrounding the fortress, but there was no surprise in them – only a deep and ancient bitterness.
– My father is a man of many talents, but his greatest gift has always been the lie – Orlan murmured, his voice almost lost to the wind. – Lorenzo has already moved his rooks and knights across the board. He's managed to convince the regency council in Aureliana that this Brigade is the disease consuming the realm, rather than the cure. He's used the King's name to summon the royal garrison, making the capital's army do his dirty work while he clears the path for the Solterrans. The wolf is now wearing the shepherd's overcoat.
From the midst of the mass of soldiers, a knight advanced on a white stallion, whose silver breastplate reflected the pale sunlight like a mirror. It was General Vasco Salgado. His armour was a masterpiece of articulated, polished plates, and his helm, with the visor raised, revealed a face sculpted by discipline and war. Under the truce of a white flag that fluttered with bloody irony, he stopped within shouting distance of the walls.
– Men of the Brigade! You stand in the presence of General Vasco Salgado, Protector of Aureliana, Shield of the East, leader of over a hundred battles and scourge of the Solterrans! – Salgado's voice was a thunderclap of authority, heavy with the gravity of one who carries the law on the tip of a lance. – You are accused of high treason against the crown of Aurelia, of banditry, and of conspiracy against your lawful lord, Viscount Lorenzo Verdegrande. King Alaric may be absent, but his justice does not sleep. Surrender now and depart peacefully. I offer you the leniency of the crown: a swift trial and a dignified death for the nobles, and the mercy of the rope for the rest.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the creak of a pulley somewhere in the tower. Hector took a step forward, leaning his elbows on the stone battlements. He looked at the general, at the banners of the Golden Lion, and at the horizon where freedom went to die. The leader of the Brigade breathed in the morning air, thick with the scent of earth and the imminence of blood, and then flashed a smile that made the gold in his teeth glint under the grey light.
– General Salgado! – Hector roared, his voice echoing throughout the valley. – I have heard your words with great attention and have pondered them for the appropriate length of time, just as Aurelian etiquette dictates. My official response, sent with the compliments of the Mad Dog Brigade, is this: Suck my balls!
Hector's shout hung over the royal army like an insult to the gods. Alistair, who still had traces of soot on his face, closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, letting out a sigh that seemed to carry the entire weight of the world.
– And there it is – Alistair muttered to the stone of the wall. – There goes our chance of a trial with a final meal and a cell with fewer rats. Hector's diplomacy is, without a doubt, the fastest way to get us impaled before lunch.
General Vasco Salgado did not respond. He simply turned his horse about, and the silence that followed was the sound of a thousand swords being drawn at once. On the battlements, the men of the Brigade moved with the haste of the damned. There was the rasp of hand-cannons and arquebuses being positioned, the constant blowing to keep the matches alive, and the dry thud of lead being rammed into iron tubes. The smell of sulphur was already beginning to drift through the air, anticipating the banquet to come.
Alistair wiped his sweaty palm on his soot-and-grease-stained doublet. He looked at Roderick, who remained as still as an iron statue, and at little Lucius, whose pale face was a smudge of innocence in a nest of wolves. Hector's bravado still echoed off the stones, but the weight of reality was now a mountain upon Alistair's shoulders. This wasn't a roadside skirmish or a tavern brawl; this was true war, and it had teeth of steel and royal banners.
– If the gods have a sense of humour – Alistair hissed with a trembling voice –, this would be the ideal moment for the final punchline.
The sun, finally breaking through the grey clouds, hit the valley with a cruel clarity. The glare reflected off a thousand silver breastplates and spear tips, turning the army of Aureliana into a river of white fire that began to snake towards the walls. The ground started to vibrate with the rhythmic tread of the infantry, a war drum made of boots and destiny.
Alistair gripped the leather hilt of his sword, feeling the chill of the metal through his gloves. He looked at the sky, at the golden disc of Solarius watching everything with divine disdain, and closed his eyes for a brief instant.
– Great Lord of Light – he murmured, in a prayer that tasted of despair and iron –, if you get us out of this hole with our guts still inside our bodies, I swear by every wine in Aurelia that I'll become a devoted man. I'll hold vigils, I'll sing Your hymns, and I'll be the most pious soul ever to wield a blade. Just don't let the crows feast on my face.