“The reasons that our right honourable gentlemen suggests for the prohibition on discussion of Theurgy in a public setting are absurd. Does he recognise the enormity, the sheer scale, of issues that come from the uneducated trying to involve themselves in matters of state security?”

“The simple act of freedom of speech is the progenitor of chaos. Conflict. Discord. It is pernicious! To even suggest it, seems to me, like the intervention of foreign actors. To disturb the stability and peace of our great nation.”

“Now, this is not an issue that cannot be discussed, for it must be in the right time, place, and setting. For Parliament grants this with its parliamentary privilege. Very right, only those appointed and approved to take rank in this Augustine House should be allowed to discuss it. To argue otherwise is a blight on the individual. A disgrace. An issue of a lack of confidence which should be purged.”

“To engage the issue in contention, for this is the very nature of our house, I shall propose an offer to our political contemporaries. If anyone of all our adversaries be able to clearly and plainly prove, by such authority of the scriptures, our old doctors of the Church, and the councils held within the ages of yore, I am content to yield unto them, and to subscribe to their religious philosophies.”

“However, I shall set stringent rules upon this as I foresee the use of the Pontiff’s messages as vehicles of argument. To truly understand if this is God’s intentions, rather than the intrusion of religion into secular politics, I place an embargo on the use of religious messaging from our contemporary ecclesiastics.”

“This embargo is placed on all works save those before the year 1200. All afterwards are not to be used. If this House finds that the arguments are unsatisfactory, it is blatant that the Church of Cymorth seeks to encroach upon the authority of the Great Houses of our nation. That they seek to expand their power, to undermine the traditional stability between the tripartite of powers. The kingpin of Cymorth.”

- An excerpt of a speech performed in Parliament by Ceidol Ilwynfen, a Traditionalist, in response to the interruption by the Gentry, further delaying Article 5 of financing the war against Praeteritum, January 1263.

———

“Open the gates!” A voice cried from the walls. The sound of winches churning resounded. Metal grinding against metal. The portcullis rattled open, rising above the walkway into the sky.

Beneath, Rupert and Cyffre were still looking at the hung cage. Marquis Arian had been brutally executed. His charred skeleton produced a malodorous smell, its stench pervaded the kill zone and walkway.

Rupert felt his clothes being tugged forwards. He flicked reins and followed Cyffre through the open portcullis gates, taking the lead. A grim expression was plastered on his face, he was not pleased. The stink followed behind him, its malodorous tendrils snaked around his head and into his nose.

They passed beneath the bridged walkway. The cobble ground was steeped, the paths separating into a fork. One path left, one path straight, one path right. They directed their horses to take the left and descended from their saddles.

With their warhorses leashed to a post, and the Berserker chained alongside them, they ascended the staircase. Rupert was to confront Cythraul and Hanabl Cadarn, his accomplice. They topped the stairs, and Cythraul awaited before them, arms folded behind his back. Rupert frowned. He already felt irritation smouldering in his stomach, seeing Cythraul so confident made it seethe.

“Walk with me.” Cythraul nodded, then turned. He strode to follow the walkway clockwise, which continued past the previous left wall at an angle. It was to end at the next lunette.

Rupert snapped his body around to follow him, forcing his hands behind his back in copy of Cythraul’s demeanour. He remained silent, waiting for Cythraul to speak first. The squeaking of metal rung out from behind them, followed by a second set of footsteps.

“You’re a man of blasted luck.” Cythraul shook his head sternly.

“Cythraul, what the fuck have you done?” Rupert cursed at Cythraul. It was the first sparks of embers, and they burnt.

“Do not talk to me like that, Rupert, when you know nothing of what has happened.” Cythraul retaliated bluntly.

“How do you expect me to react rationally when I have seen what I have seen?” Rupert demanded; his brows furrowed.

“I expect you to shut up and listen…” Cythraul was interrupted before he could continue.

“No, don’t play that game with me, Cythraul. Remember your station. You are talking to the duke of this army, not to your inferior. You may have once had power above my ranking many years ago, but you no longer do. This is my army, and you shall follow Honnen procedures. I expect you to recount what has happened since our meeting last night, with full accounts of your reasoning and justification. If it is not satisfactory, I demand satisfaction.” Rupert bludgeoned Cythraul. The embers inside crackled into fire.

Cythraul paused for a moment, staring at Rupert blankly. Rupert returned his gaze with impatience, his eyes demanding a response. Though the two men were silent, the sound of stones cracking beneath Hanabl’s wheels resounded against the echoes of explosions rippling from the distant battlefield.

“As you command, Duke Honnen,” Cythraul sighed with disappointment. “Corruption has had the opportunity to fester within your army. At the head of it was the man we just executed, Marquis Arian. He had contrived a plan to usurp you from your position as Duke. He was a traitor, Rupert, not a scoundrel we put lackadaisically to execution.”

Rupert stared disbelievingly at Cythraul, his teeth grinding beneath his clenched jaw.

“How can you be certain?” Rupert barked out a reply. This news disturbed him greatly, certainly setting him off balance from his previous fiery assault.

“Yesterday afternoon, I set up a series of inquiries led by Cyffre and the intelligence division that did the predominant investigations. Their findings were passed onto me before our meeting later that evening, which is where I gave my preliminary evaluations, if you recall. I also informed Modau Honnen, Marquis of the Draig legion, of some of my suspicions, and he provided some information that he had kept secret for future endeavours. His information proved fruitful after I passed it onto Diogi Honnen who uncovered this plot.” Cythraul explained. Rupert licked his dry lips nervously.

“How could they depose me as a Duke? It would take more than half of the ranked officers to get rid of me!” He tried to guffaw to hide his lack of confidence, but it came out in breathless wheezes instead.

“Fairly simply actually. It’d be a fatuous stunt if they tried to rebel against you. You’re far too strong. Politically, you’re not though,” Cythraul uncrossed his arms from behind his back. “If it were normal times, your army would have remained loyal to you and your weakness would remain unexploited. But it isn’t normal times, and your weakness did get exploited.”

“What was I meant to do? I told you, if I involved myself, I’d have made a right pig’s breakfast of it…” Rupert responded, though he wasn’t sure if his voice was a whisper.

Cythraul ignored Rupert’s mutterings and continued.

“For how they could depose you…” He contemplated for a second and started once more. “If you were to look at the army’s power structure, it would be a little like this: you at the top, and everyone below. The power trickles down from you, but you can choose who you extend it to. All resources are owned by you and given out by you - even if it’s not done by you personally, it’s done in your name.”

“That is a functional prerequisite of an army, it wouldn’t operate without that natural hierarchy. No ranked officer should ever be so rash as to consider themselves superior to those who hold stations above them. Otherwise, no one would follow commands properly, as seen multiple times with those scab officers.” Rupert said, quashing his nervousness.

“Hierarchy isn’t a natural birthright and you certainly don’t keep your position because of who you are and who you know. Those who rely only on birthright are displaced from the hierarchy by their betters or are made puppets that hold their place only in name. Without me, you were going to be of one of those two categories, displaced by your political betters.” Cythraul said frostily.

“I did not achieve this position by natural birthright, Cythraul…” Rupert was cut off by the other man before he could finish his statement.

“I agree,” Cythraul replied. “However, Morrigan did not choose you for your talents as a general. You were chosen because you are the greatest knight of the last century. But alas, a knight is not a general, while a general is not a knight.”

The two men fell silent once more. Rupert could not find the words to repudiate Cythraul’s final statement, it hit too close to home.

“How were they going to depose me?” Rupert asked, his brows furrowed like trenches upon his forehead.

“You are the army’s greatest patron, and no one else. You, yourself, have a monopoly on the army’s power,” Cythraul explained. “This means that it is difficult for ranked officers to make people implicitly loyal to themselves. Under this setting, it is impossible to immediately create a unified faction within the army, opposing you, for all officers are supported by, and are reliant on, your power. Why should they risk this by supporting your opponents? Except, now there are a group of officers with power in the army but aren’t supported by you.”

“The scab officers?” Rupert wrung his hands.

“Yes,” Cythraul nodded. “To forcefully make soldiers into officers with the knowledge that they were temporary replacements for the dead, until they themselves died, is not a way to create loyalty to you.”

“I understand. But what would Marquis Arian and the rest of the aristocrats gain by supporting a bunch of former peasant soldiers? Other than being antithetical to the aristocratic hierarchy, they were a bunch of useless officers even in practice. We were already rearing some exceptional replacements for those who passed not long ago. They should have gotten their support!” Rupert said passionately.

“They, the scab and aristocrat officers, knew that if the scabs died, it did not matter, for the real replacements were more significant. That they would eventually be killed to transfer the gift of Malevolency, you temporarily bestowed upon them, onto the real heirs of the dead ranked officers. But” Cythraul paused, “you have a monopoly on power.”

“Surely not? They couldn’t be so stupid as to wantonly try to destroy our army to take power away from me. You must be exaggerating their greed, Cythraul, I see no other way!” Rupert questioned disbelievingly.

“On one side, you have ranked officers who’ve been plotting to take power from you since the formation of this levied army, and on the other are resentful, in-complicit death sworn. And finally, you who are politically inept. They smelt blood, Rupert.” Cythraul answered.

“But what about the trainees…” Rupert was cut off once more by Cythraul.

“Think of it this way,” Cythraul said curtly. “Because they’re trained in your ideology where should their loyalties lie? You. Who taught them their knowledge? You. Who should they give their support to in a time of peril? You. Their biggest patron is you, Duke Rupert Honnen. Not Marquis Arian. Not Marquis Tasai. And certainly not Earl Druan.”

“By racketeering resources away from the trainee officers, they broke this power structure. They took it upon themselves to select who to give the reserves to, and who better than those not long for the earth. Your scab officers. By keeping them alive, and giving them the resources of the others, they used your power to move loyalty away to themselves. A rare opportunity indeed.” Cythraul finished.

Rupert’s face darkened in anger. It smouldered inside, but not longer at Cythraul. He felt some of the anger burn himself, targeted at his own failings, though the rest was stoked by feelings of hatred towards Arian’s faction.

“But that shouldn’t matter! They had no need to worry about needing supporters, they just needed to do their job and they’d be fine!” Rupert shouted irately, relieving the fire within.

However, he recognised how pitiful he was, forced into whining about others, blaming them more than himself for his own failings. If only he knew how to deal with these predicaments, then he’d… then he’d… He didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t realise it, but his fingers were in his mouth and he was gnawing down on them.

“They succumbed to personal glory and their own self-interests, Rupert.” Cythraul replied heavily.

“What? Glory? Interests? If they listened to my orders, they’d get far more glory!” Rupert spat out bitterly.

“They do not see it that way. They believe in the glory of the charge, in the personal success of it. That it is just to sacrifice the peasant soldiers in return for a triumphant battle, no matter the winning or losing so long as they gain more Malevolency.” Cythraul shook his head.

“Absolutely disgraceful!” Rupert cursed.

They fell back into silence once more. The wheels still crunched stones behind them, followed by a second set of footsteps. Flashes from explosions and the billowing of smoke clouds caught Rupert’s attention from the corner of his eye. He turned his head to face it but was called back by Cythraul once more.

“Have you heard of the Wars of Religious Lands?” Cythraul asked, breaking their silence.

“Of course. I don’t think there are many who haven’t.” Rupert responded, folding his hands behinds his back.

“Good. So, you know that there are five Families that are allowed to be Aristocrats of the Sword, though only three still voluntarily hold that title.” Cythraul said.

“Yes. My family being one, with the others being the Lafant and the Aethnenni family.” Rupert replied almost quizzically.

“Do you know how much profit there is to be had by being the Sword of the Frontier? I hadn’t thought of it much until today actually.” Cythraul’s tone was beginning to shift, and Rupert looked towards him. Was he meandering? That’s not possible… Something had shaken him.

“That’s why the treaty was signed between the Aristocrats of the Sword, and presided over by Aristocrats of the Robe, that established who controlled the Frontier for what duration of time.” Rupert answered.

“That would be correct, except the Honnen family has taken on the Frontier before the potential outbreak of war against Praeteritum. That is enough to stoke jealousy among the other Houses. Do you remember what Arian screamed before he died?” Cythraul asked. Rupert realised that Cythraul was shaken, but then he was started by the realisation that dawned upon himself.

“He was supported by the House Aethnenni.” Rupert said slowly.

“Yes. I never got out of him why they supported him though, but it got me thinking,” Cythraul was certainly shaken, he was using far more words than usual. “I came to the conclusion that the Aethnenni were trying to divide the Honnen army and destroy it, to force His Majesties government to send reinforcements, Aethnenni reinforcements, to the Frontier. By making you seem… utterly incompetent… Parliament’s trust in the Honnen’s ability to defend the safety of the realm would plummet and competition could emerge for who should next take ownership of the Frontier. Who best than the next family of the Sword on the rota?”

Rupert shivered with the realisation that Cythraul was suggesting.

“Are you saying that if Arian and his faction weren’t put down today, and were left to grow, we could have had another War of Religious Lands?” Rupert asked.

“Not to the same scale as that civil war, but certainly a civil war between three Houses of the Sword, nonetheless.” Cythraul replied honestly.

“Burn those damned bloodthirsty devils! Think of the butcher’s toll on that war! With it being on the Frontier as well, it would draw in all nearby countries, not just our own!” Rupert exclaimed with utter disbelief at the Aethnenni’s plot.

“What would they even gain?” Rupert followed up quickly.

“Even more profit. Think of the transference of Malevolent reserves in a battle of that scale? Even a losing family could end up even stronger than before they’d started, let alone the victor.” Cythraul said heavily.

They walked in silence for a while, save for the squeaking of Hanabl’s wheelchair. They finally reached the lunette, choosing to stop here for now. Cyffre shooed the interior pike men away from their stations.

They spun their pikes beneath their armpit, bowed, and marched away down the walkway. Rupert and Cythraul strode over to the walls, looking over towards the battlefield.

It was beginning to peter out now. Rare explosions detonated intermittently. Their thunderous resonance reached them by the time the next blast occurred. The Praeteritum encampment had been torched by the Honnen armies flames now. The tents were littered with corpses, though a measly number of Berserkers were kept as prisoners of war.