Even amongst the ranks of the faithful and the zealous, who lust for miracles and their divine meaning the most, such events are exceedingly rare – coming along once per generation in the best of circumstances. Some, especially those of Baron Mikael von Kürschbourgh’s overzealous ilk – who have let their lust for the divine blind them of the cold, hard facts of reality – were quick to categorize what happened at Pravia as a miracle. On the surface, such opinions appear correct: Erich Schur, despite all odds, won against the Stone Face King and his Dweghom army. However, those of true educational depth and a proper understanding of military tactics would come to a far different conclusion. Erich Schur did not win because of a miracle. Erich Schur won because he is one very clever bastard.
Once he reached Pravia, Ragodosh unleashed the hellish flames of war upon the fields outside the city’s walls. Men and women, both young and old, died in droves as a monumental battle raged on between the forces of the Dweghom and those of the Hundred Kingdoms. Initially, the Dweghom appeared a near unstoppable force, immolating most of the battlefield with their Helldrakes and viciously assaulting the defenders with their ironclad troops. However, the spirit of humanity proved to be indomitable, and the defenders of Pravia soon turned the tide of battle in their favor. Finding a battered and wounded Ragodosh on the battlefield, Erich Schur and the great Raegh partook in single combat. In the end, the human commander bested the Dweghom King during their duel, causing the forces from Ghe’Domn to retreat.
At that point, however, Erich’s wits came to shine in earnest, as he had come to notice the fervor shown by the Dweghom when witnessing the sword wielded by Baron Mikael von Kürschbourgh. The Baron was brandishing an ancient dragonblade that was tied to Ghe’Domn’s very founding, and, while not aware of the weapon’s full history and meaning, Erich understood that the Dweghom would never stop attacking Pravia until that blade was theirs. Not wishing to relive a similar war in the future, Erich Schur did what any brilliant strategist would: he punched Baron Mikael von Kürschbourgh in the face and quickly retrieved the dragonblade from the unconscious noble. Riding to reach the retreating Dweghom Army, Schur offered the weapon to Ragodosh, hoping that the Stone Face King would never return to Pravia now that he had his treasure – and he was right.
In the end, Ragodosh had achieved the goal he had set out to do, yet all was not well when he returned to Ghe’Domn. The recovery of the blade ensured the continuation of his reign but while he had retrieved the relic, the Raegh had still lost to a human. Now, the Stone Face King seemed untouchable no longer and the seeds of doubt planted by the Azdhaen, Alekhaneros, once more had fertile ground. While Ragodosh remained the leader of his hold still, the clans seemed less inclined to unite and follow him to grander ventures. The future of his reign seemed uncertain at best, while the Hundred Kingdoms had managed to quench, for now at least, the fire brewing in their very midst.
For Erich Schur, he did not partake much in Pravia’s victory celebrations, for the Chamberlain requested his immediate appearance in Argem. Fearing another scolding for assaulting a noble, though the Baron still had a pulse – a small victory for Schur – the meeting would prove rather different than what the infamous commander expected.
EPILOGUE
“Erich, I am delighted. Brava!”
He barely managed to contain a wince. Instead his eyes darted uneasy, as if looking for an exit. Interestingly, despite the Chamberlain’s words – or, probably because of them – he felt tense, trapped. More so, in fact, than when the Chamberlain had berated and humiliated him publicly in the past. Instead, this was an intimate event, in the Chamberlain’s marble-ladened – some claimed sillubaster too – private office, filled with the dusty and stuffy smell of parchment and ink. A pile of documents was stacked on the side of the dark mahogany desk, the Chamberlain’s hand resting on them as he smiled almost… warmly.
“It was good fortune that saw you present during this attack.”
Erich swallowed a scoff, not paying attention. Of course he’d fit in some self-praise in there, wouldn’t he? Even if it was only him that was present. That warm smile, the veteran thought bitterly, was addressed to no one more but himself. Arrogant pr…
“But all the praise should go to you. This is your doing, Erich. I know we have had our differences but… Well, I am proud, Erich.”
And that’s where he lost him. Too far, he thought and, much like he did when he was being berated, Erich let his mind travel, only half-listening to most words coming out of the Chamberlain’s mouth with the iron discipline of a veteran. His peripheral vision scanned cautiously books whose titles alone bored him. He focused on the distant, muffled noises, born somewhere in the corners of the exquisite view of Argem from the window behind the Chamberlain. He licked his lips absentmindedly, as his eyes glanced over a cabinet of crystal bottles, the shimmering glass adding an extra, expensive shine to the already enticing contents.
“…whose mother, turns out was…”
The Chamberlain had gotten up now and was going through the stack of papers, pulling documents and showing them to him and talking – always talking! – already sending him to fetch or kill or do something else for him no doubt. He’d know what he was supposed to do soon enough, he was sure. Except…
“…as you can see in this letter, and here, the Argem birth records of…”
Wait.
“In a way, the timing couldn’t have been more fortunate,” went on the Chamberlain, as he kept producing documents before him. “Savior of a city, defender of the people of Pravia, the one who stood against the Dweghom. Where even their so called ‘Great’ Fredrik failed to keep his cities safe from the Dweghom, you single-handedly succeeded with quick wit and nerves of steel.”
Something stirred inside Erich. The same voice that cautioned him about an enemy approaching from behind, or a volley of arrows whistling as they descended from above. A sixth sense, an instinct, pure and honed by years of relying on it for survival on the field, was screaming, louder than ever.
“Sure, you might have angered the Church through Kürschbourgh, but the nobility only not-so-secretly delighted even in that. Ah, never have I heard them so united in their praises, Erich, I swear!”
He focused, his mind replaying the Chamberlain’s words, going through all the things he had half-heard before. As realization hit him, his cheeks reddened, looking at the Chamberlain with widened, at first, then narrowed eyes, only for the man to continue his monologue.
“And the people! Oh, how the people sing your praises! From the fields to the barracks and the dankest inns, Erich the Stone Faced, they now call you, I am told. Erich the Hero. Erich the Steel Nerved… I believe there are already two or three songs and poems to that effect. Bards were so inspired by your deeds that word has reached all corners of the Kingdoms. Or, perhaps, I should say the Em…,” he smiled playfully.
“Stop,” Erich said, perhaps a little more angrily than he intended – then again, perhaps not.
“Ah,” the Chamberlain smiled. “I was admiring how composed you had remained with the news.” He leaned forward, pushing the presented documents towards him, encouragingly. “Family trees, birth records, sworn affidavits, priest testimonies, letters… I assure you, it’s all here, if you care to examine it yourself.”
“What the f-!”
“Hardly the language befitting a man of your station,” the Chamberlain interrupted, raising a finger, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Remember,” he went on, now sitting on his red-velveted chair, “you made this possible, Erich. It is the result of your success. Which, all things considered, now seems almost… natural, don’t you agree? Providence, even.”
“Don’t. You. Dare.” His narrowed eyes threw daggers at the Chamberlain, but darted to the cabinet, as he licked his lips.
The Chamberlain leaned back on his chair, his smile giving way to a composed, calculative calm, his fingers meeting before him. “There will be others now, of course,” he said. “Doubters, pretenders, claimants but…”
“My mother was a whore,” Erich spat out as he walked to the cabinet, reaching to pour a drink and only half-noticing that the Chamberlain did nothing to stop him.
“Your mother was the last known descendant of the Imperial House,” said the Chamberlain flatly, motioning with his head towards the pile of documents.
“Just don’t.” Erich said, flatly, downing the best spirit of his life with shaking hands, never before having felt as angry and as powerless as he was feeling now. “Don’t do it.”
“It is already done,” the Chamberlain answered, just a bit too resigned, as if he, too, had been swept by events.
Behind the heavy, closed doors of the Chamberlain’s office, a valet, trained to ignore all words and noises, could not help but jump at the unmistakable sound of an expensive, crystal glass being shattered into a hundred pieces.