Around the time that Lucius was convincing a gaggle of foreigners to fight on behalf of people they hardly knew in exchange for monetary compensation, the paladin was doing much the same. He had an army he had to convince should risk their lives, and certainly endanger their personal comfort, to fight a war against an enemy they barely understood. Of course, he largely had the benefit that the men following him all knew and respected him. They were a collection of men assigned to him, nor were they recently acquired mercenaries.

They were the kinds of soldiers that would quietly stand at attention when their commander walked out in front of them with a gagged bureaucrat. A platform had been erected in the small farming community that Rodrick had marched his army into, and when the two men stood upon it everyone realized it had the look of a gallows. This was the intent, and the intent did a good deal of the definition the same way that the difference between a man’s table and a troll’s bench comes down to what cheek last pressed against it.

Rodrick was a stoic man. It let him keep his composure as he braced himself to commit a crime under the auspices of justice. The man beside him was old, frail, and shaking. The man, whose name history has now forgotten, knew he had transgressed against his countrymen but didn’t know what he should have done. He had made promises of food to foreigners, and worse had do so at extortion rates to the local peasantry. That is one of the curious facets of economics often forgotten. For all the nobility can be at one another’s throats because of a few percentages, they typically expect the lower classes to not say a word against even one thousand percent mark-ups in price, as though even the lowest of blue bloods conveyed some magic touch of value.

But, what he had done was nothing that hadn’t been done for generations. If the men who had seized him from his home in the early hours of the morning had been a union of uneducated workers, he would have soiled himself and prepared to die, but he knew Sir Rodrick. And yet, the paladin had restrained him and taken him out before the rabble as though he were one of the brutes with ideas about the freedoms of men and civic liberties.

Unfortunately, Rodrick had spent the last few days getting a crash course in the proper lies and platitudes. He held no particular opinion about the philosophical musings of the inteligencia, but he fully understood that the idea had been percolating through the taverns and drink halls the world over.

With sweat beading across his brow and positioned for the rising sun to strike upon his features, he addressed his men. “This man collected bushels of wheat by the copper and sold them for silver. That processed wheat is then sold to merchants to parcel it out to bakers. The people of Jeaumeax live off that bread, offering up their earnings so they can live within the walls. This is a system of exploitation where the profits of labor are taken by those lucky enough to be born a landowner. And worse! Now those profits aren’t even staying in our own city.”

The speech was a sensitive one. Any Giordanan among his army might think too hard and realize that their goal was to return to their own kingdom, liberated. Over the course of the day, it would be Ismail’s task to smooth over such concerns.

“Our city,” Rodrick continued, his fist shaking as though with pent up rage. “Through no vote. Through no will of the temples or even the joint knowledge of the citizenry! Has become ensnared by contract to become impoverished. Merchants from Vassermark have walked among us, in numbers unthinkable. Each in the darkness of accounting rooms(1) they convinced one merchant or another to sell his portion of contracted grain not to the people of Jeameaux, but to foreigners! Each thought that it was but a small betrayal, one that would be forgotten if it was noticed at all. But every one of them made the same bet! Now there isn’t enough to feed us, even though our countrymen were the ones to grow it. And can we renege on the deals? Vassermark won’t hear of it. Already they send their armies. That is their ultimatum. Submit to poverty, or fight. And to think they called Jeameaux their friend!(2)”

By now, he had clued in enough of the malcontents in his force that they dared to support him. As with all brewing revolutions, only a small minority actually believed in what he said, fewer still were educated on the matter. Some realized that those with power had suddenly become an ally and they seized the moment. They threw up their fists and cheered, goading on their fellows.

The din of support relieved Rodrick and he cut his speech short. While the soldiers grumbled about money and status, he turned his attention to a very confused bureaucrat. The gallows stage had been cleared for the two of them, though no hangman’s noose existed. That wasn’t Rodrick’s style. He pulled the gag from the man’s mouth, getting instant protests of confusion. The paladin said, “I challenge.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Generally speaking, no magic phrase of code is needed to activate a stigmata. This is due to the simple fact that the magic language doesn’t translate to the common tongue, generally speaking. The complexity of interpreting the spoken language would be the majority of the spell. In the case of Rodrick however, the spell was able to detect a certain intent of will, a kind of primordial spell within humans. Thus, the stigmata would have activated for any language the man happened to speak.

[Trial By Duel] activated, sealing the two men in a prison of magic.

While I am partial to the effect of Lucius’ [Undying], the elegance of Rodrick’s stigmata still evokes awe and respect in me. It detects who the user is intending to fight and blocks off the physical space around them. From there, it is removed from his direct control, because even he cannot break through the barrier it forms. Only the submission or death of one of the fighters can release the other. Of course, the barrier doesn’t only prevent them from fleeing, but it prevents outside interference of nearly all sorts. There were ways to penetrate the arena, but I shant spoil those now. Certainly however, no human could push through. Arrows could not fly into the midst. No normal interference at all could be managed.

For Rodrick’s purposes, it was also visually dramatic, and it muffled his voice. Thus, he could somberly whisper, “I’m sorry. I’ll bear this guilt, but it must be done. When you reach the Shepherd, apologize to her for me, for what I’m about to do.”

This surely did little to put the man at ease before the paladin separated his head from his shoulders. Again, the historical record has been muddied here, but most agree the local merchant tried to flee, and Rodrick had to cut him down from behind. This was one of his many crimes to perpetuate a war attempted to kill Lucius and myself.

After the theatrics, there was hours of mundane work to be done, pillaging the early grain harvest to sustain the army. It was all taken under the auspices of liberating it for the people, but none of it ever reached the mouth of a woman or child. They piled the pack animals heavy the next day, taking it all for themselves.

Rodrick himself worked until the sun had gone down. Finally able to retire, he stripped out of his armor and sank into a chair within the local lord’s manor. There, the Cyclops joined him, none of her compatriots intruding. She dressed like a man when among the troops, not wearing any indicator of status. Lit only by a dwindling oil lamp, she swaggered across the room to him with exaggerated charm.

“Your speech worked,” Rodrick said, idly shaking the wine goblet he had already emptied.

“As did your swordsmanship. All the pretty words in the world would have been for nothing without the delivery,” she said as she sat down on the table. She slid a hand over and wrapped hers around his. She squeezed to quell the tremor plaguing him.

“I’m too old for this.”

“Too old?” the Cyclops asked, her laughter filling the room. “I’ll have you know the flecks of gray are charming. You’re still unwed, aren’t you?”

“I took oaths,” he said, gaze on his opposite hand where a wedding band might have been.

“You’re an oathbreaker now, aren’t you?” the vixen asked, forcing her fingers between his.

His gaze sharply turned on her and he ripped his hand from her grasp. “Save that for seducing the Solhart boy.”

She sighed and walked over to the window where moonlight flowed through. “Word is that he already marches here.”

“I’m not surprised. We plundered more than enough wagons of food.”

“He knows this isn’t about the food.”

“Good.”

“He sent his friends to the east. Surreptitiously, he thinks. He probably has no idea that we’re aware…”

Rodrick frowned. “What kind of friends?”

The Cyclops crossed her arms. “The kind that would make good hostages. He dotes on the one girl. Take her and he can be bargained with. But… do you have a swordmaster at your disposal?”

“Several, but maybe not that would kidnap a girl.”

The Cyclops said, “Don’t send anyone less. The man protecting her cannot be underestimated.”

Rodrick nodded. “I’ll see who can be spared. But, get out of here, woman. I’ll send for you tomorrow.” He snarled as she rolled her eye at him, but she departed. The paladin drank until his eyes shut.

Of course, darkness of accounting rooms was purely poetic. Dismal as such scribing dens may be, they are rarely dark. It’s difficult to cook the books if you can’t read the numbers. In this context, a friend of a kingdom such as Vassermark meant a tribute state deserving of protection both militarily and economic. The tribute was meant to be fixed, while the defenses were–in theory–unlimited.