Horizon of War Series-Chapter 248: Sedition

Sedition

Canardia Outskirts

Despite the camp commander's urging for the rioters to return home, the crowd refused to listen and continued to wreak havoc on the city’s outskirts. Instead, they seemed to revel in their newfound power. A splintered mass of six thousand had marched north, searching for food in nearby villages. Meanwhile, around eight thousand remained scattered across the area surrounding the city of Canardia. Some surrounded the fortified camp where the Lord was believed to be taking refuge, continuing to voice their demands.

Others gathered at the main city gate, shouting different demands to be let into the city. When those demands were denied, they set fires at the gates and attempted to force their way inside. The city guards held their ground and began dousing them with foul water to drive them away.

As the sun dipped lower in the western sky, the remaining rioters drifted back to the abandoned tents or the arena in search of food. They seized whatever they could: abandoned goods, peddlers’ wares, anything of value. The riot had driven off the peddlers, travelers, and other roaming merchants, so there was no food to find.

Brawls flared between groups as hunger took hold. If not for the riders and horse trainers’ valiant efforts to evacuate the animals at the first sign of trouble, the horses would have fallen victim to the mob’s desperation.

Soon, it became clear to everyone that if they wanted to keep pressing their demand to punish Sir Ebenstein, they would have no choice but to join the marauding bands the next day and scavenge from neighboring villages.

Some more ambitious groups began planning attacks on smaller towns, intending to force them to surrender food or face assault. In the waning light, they set about organizing, recruiting like-minded men, and gathering makeshift weapons in preparation for the next day. Speed was vital, or rival groups would get there first.

Meanwhile, the Saint Followers and the nobles’ agents watched in silence, shielded by the safety of their larger mobs, who appeared to participate and offered strength when needed. They remained calm, having brought provisions and arms with them.

While food was not cheap, as the region had only recently emerged from civil war, the monastery had hoarded a vast sum from pilgrimages to their famous healing baths. They were willing to part with it, so long as it served their goals.

Their plan was simple: provoke and steer the masses into further rioting. Soon, the mob would grow desperately hungry and fall into their control.

"What an excellent understanding of human nature," said the young, sweet-looking Saint Candidate, praising the field commander of the rebellion. "Once they’ve raided the nearby villages, they’ll have no source left but to beg handouts from us."

Sir Hohendorf, seated across from her, was pleased with the turn of events. Earlier, he had nearly lost his composure when Sir Ebenstein escaped with the creature, but as it turned out, it only helped their cause. Everyone in the arena had seen the half-beast that carried Sir Ebenstein away, and it served as clear proof that the Lord was protecting the accused. Enough to send even his precious retinue to do it.

He set aside the map on the small circular table before them and remarked, "Nothing makes men more willing to fight than the combination of injustice and an empty belly."

"The suffering of the body is needed to lead the people to the One Truth. And when that happens through the fall of the Black Demon, Saint Nay will be thoroughly pleased," she said, her voice brimming with excitement, a sharp contrast to the damp, drab farmer’s house near the arena that served as their headquarters.

Her words caught his attention. "After the fall of the Black Demon, do you think things will return to normal?"

"Of course. Things will be better, with blessed nobles like you at the top, leading Midlandia to its glory."

With only the two of them present, Sir Hohendorf straightened in his seat. "I may be leading things here, but I’m far from the strongest House. What will the Saint think of me? Can you remind her that it was I who answered her call and put my neck on the line?"

The Saint Candidate smiled sweetly. "The Saint never forgets. She’ll reward her champion before any other."

"Champion?" Sir Hohendorf's eyes widened with surprise, not expecting such an honor.

She kept her smile, her eyes calm and studious, as if speaking something sacred. "It's shameful that out of two dozen powerful Houses around the old city of Krakusa, only you answered the call. Therefore, I may petition you as the sole ruler of Krakusa."

Upon hearing that, Sir Hohendorf rose and knelt before the Saint Candidate, reaching to touch her shoes. Even they carried the faint scent of fine incense, a musky and floral note that lingered in the air. "The Saint already saved my son from the blindness he suffered in the war. Now, she will raise me to even greater heights."

The Saint Candidate enjoyed the devotion. She bent her lithe figure to caress the man's broad shoulder, urged him to lift his head, and whispered in his ear, "The Saint isn't the only one who can grant wishes."

Sir Hohendorf didn’t understand at first. His eyes lingered on her radiant face, the honeyed smile, the generous curves beneath her red garments. Then he turned away, startled by a sudden surge of desire.

A smirk briefly crossed the Saint Candidate’s lips as she took the older man’s chin and gently turned his face back to hers. "I too can grant you power. Saint Nay has given me her full support, and I’m certain she’ll welcome my decision to join your family."

"Join my family?" The words caught in his throat.

The Saint Candidate left the question unanswered and kissed his lips before declaring, "As the slayer of the Black Demon, you shall take me as your new wife. I will make you the Baron of Krakusa and its surrounding lands. Together, we will be the pillars of the new Holy Kingdom of Midlandia."

Lust and greed overcame the knight, and he kissed her again and again. Thoughts of his loyal wife slipped away without resistance.

The Saint Candidate didn’t mind. Monastery life had never suited her, and now she had found her escape.

While the Saint seemed to indoctrinate his son, she had no qualms about taking the father. House Hohendorf would rise high, perhaps even to rule central Midlandia, and she would claim it all for herself.

For her, there was no greater pleasure than erasing the shame of her low birth, gaining power, and carving a place for herself at the top.

***

Lansius

The sun dyed the sky crimson in a breathtaking display, casting the land in the same deep hue as it slipped into the western horizon. To those who witnessed it, the sight seemed a portent of what was to come.

Lansius was outside his command building when he saw it. He paused, letting the breeze brush against him and savoring the last warmth of the sun’s fading rays. Moments earlier, he had returned from checking on his troops’ morale, walking through the camp and exchanging banter along the way to show that he was confident, had a plan, and was in control of the situation. He had also stopped by the field kitchens to sample a few meals, giving his men something positive to talk about besides the riots. He knew he had to be the catalyst for his men's inner strength.

A commander must always appear to have a plan, even when he has none. Morale and trust are fickle things and must be handled with the greatest care.

He recalled an old teaching by Sun Tzu.

As he walked with Sterling and the guards toward the command building, lanterns of various sizes and brightness lit up the camp. There were more than necessary, but they were meant to deter the rioters from guessing their true strength. That was also why patrols now passed more frequently along the wooden battlements. It wore out more men than it should just for night watch, but better that than risking a surprise attack in the dark.

When they reached the command building, the chamber fell silent for a moment. Too silent than what was customary.

Bad news?

Lansius exhaled, bracing himself as he walked to his chair and took a seat. "So, why the faces?"

Dame Daniella and the camp commander exchanged glances. The latter gave a slight nudge, signaling the Dame to speak.

She composed herself and said, "My Lord, it’s not exactly bad news."

"Must be concerning if you’re speaking like that," Lansius replied.

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

The Dame turned to one corner and motioned for the signalman to step forward.

The signalman did so and bowed his head. "My Lord, I bring news from the castle."

"The castle?" Lansius frowned. "Go on."

"The flag message is marked from Sir Omin. It reads: The castle guards and household staff are armed and prepared to lay down their lives. Provisions are sufficient. No riot shall breach the gates."

Lansius was immediately piqued. The choice of words struck him as too grim.

The signalman continued, "My Lord, the Lady has taken to her birthing bed. She has begun her labor, but appears in good health and shows no sign of distress. Your family, lady Valerie, and lady Ingrid are with her, along with the midwives, the court physician, and the attending women. May the Ancients watch over her and the child."

Lansius stood up abruptly. The news hit him like a jolt. Around him, everyone wore strained expressions, knowing they couldn’t even escort their lord back to the castle to be with Lady Audrey.

"But it’s too soon," Lansius muttered in disbelief. "Did the stress of the riot cause her to..."

The commander stepped forward. "My Lord, allow me to form a detachment of brave riders to escort you to the castle."

"Let me lead the vanguard," Sterling offered.

"No," Lansius shook his head. "We can’t. It would only cause more confusion. We need to wait for reinforcements to arrive."

But Audrey doesn't have the time.

The thought struck him, leaving him wide-eyed and still.

The camp commander, unaware of his inner turmoil, spoke with sincere conviction. "I understand I’m not as capable as Sir Harold, but my riders and I will give our lives to ensure—"

"No," Lansius interrupted, firm and sharp. Then, steadying his voice, he continued in a calmer tone, "If we spill blood, we’ll give them a reason to rebel. We must keep our composure."

The camp commander, Dame Daniella, and Sterling exchanged uneasy glances, each uncertain of what to say or how to proceed.

Lansius slumped into his seat, propped his right elbow on the armrest, and rested his chin against his knuckles. His gaze drifted, unfocused and hollow. Frustration welled up inside him. He wanted to be with Audrey. She was his raison d'etre. And now, his knowledge of childbirth in this age tormented him. Even if she appeared healthy, labor was a grim gamble.

He had chosen skilled midwives and an open-minded physician, training them himself with as much basic medical knowledge as he could, limited only by their preconceived notions of the medical world. He had even supplied them with medical soap and alcohol to prevent infection and keep their tools clean, hoping it would be enough to protect the mother and child. But none of it eased the fear. He should have been there, watching over it all.

Childbirth was a battle, and he had left Audrey to fight it alone.

"Not to be there. What a disgrace," Lansius said, bitter and pained, covering his face with both hands as if ashamed to be seen.

Sterling stepped closer, speaking with quiet reassurance. "My Lord, lady Valerie and Ingrid are with them. I’m certain they can manage whatever may come."

Dame Daniella followed with calm assurance. "You have capable staff at the castle, my Lord. They know their duties and will meet whatever challenges arise."

Sterling quickly added, "And Sister Clementine. She should be resting in the city after her duties and should be available if the castle summons her."

Their words reassured Lansius to a point. However, deep inside, something had already flared and refused to subside. He felt betrayed by the rioters. He had done so much after the war, using his military to restore order, drive out brigands and bandits, avoid imposing new taxes, and revive the economy and markets. Yet the masses were so readily swayed by shadowy groups.

While he had only the testimonies of Francisca and Sir Ebenstein, he was sure that the movement had been orchestrated by the nobles.

It was ironic that the commoners had been roused by the nobles to corner him, using Sir Ebenstein as bait.

Lansius felt his palms grow damp as he clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. He had granted the nobles as much leniency as possible, offering tax amnesty in exchange for disclosure and pardon. Yet despite their oaths, they continued to scheme behind his back, even going so far as to invite the monastery’s followers.

More than anything, Lansius loathed the corrupt, the ungrateful, and the oath-breakers. Military law was clear, and he would see it enforced.

Justinian's Nika...

He thought of what he had long suppressed. Lansius hadn’t wished to invoke it, but now there was no more doubt. He raised his gaze and declared to his staff, "The situation has changed."

His staff recognized the tone and straightened instinctively, ready to receive their orders.

Lansius continued, "Call the captains and lieutenants. We’ll end this riot before midnight."

***

Canardia Outskirts

An old squire, drenched in sweat and red-faced from running, burst into the house not far from the arena, startling the occupants inside. The guards outside could only gather and watch, unsure of what to do.

"By the Ancients, what has possessed you? We have the Saint Candidate here," Sir Hohendorf said, visibly irritated at having his supper interrupted.

Ignoring him, treating him as an equal rather than a subordinate, the old man reported, "The Lord has sent his half-beast and his men to the arena."

"What?" Sir Hohendorf asked, stunned.

But a calm voice came from behind. "What can the Black Demon do?" asked the Saint Candidate as she approached, now dressed in purple.

"Your reverence," the old squire greeted, bowing his head.

The Saint Candidate stopped beside Sir Hohendorf and said, "Everything is progressing as planned. Soon, the crowd will join us willingly. We already have more than the combined strength of thirty knightly Houses and their squires, along with thousands of loyal followers. So again, what can the Black Lord do?"

Sir Hohendorf nodded, though uneasily. He turned to the old squire and asked, "Who do we have there?"

"Sir Bielstein is in the arena."

"He'll be more than enough to counter whatever the Black Lord attempts. We shall not be baited into revealing our strength this early," the knight replied.

The old squire nodded firmly and left, the door shutting behind him as the guards closed it, leaving the two alone.

Noticing the man's tight jaw, she asked, "Are you still doubtful?"

He didn’t nod but said, "The Black Lord is resourceful. This might not be just a simple ruse."

She smiled, finding his concern amusing. "I keep hearing praise and fear directed at him. Even the Saint has named him a demon. But I doubt even the Black Demon can do anything without his army." She walked over to the basket her aide had left on the table, took out a wineskin and a goblet, and began to pour. "He's buying time."

"Indeed," Sir Hohendorf said, his voice steadier. "He’ll need a full day to prepare his army, then three to four more to march from Ploiesta."

“Five days,” she murmured, sipping her wine and offering him the goblet. “Before they arrive, the Black Demon will die.”

***

Francisca

With the wind in her face, Francisca returned to the elevated podium inside the arena. She stood on the platform, surrounded by armed men. From there, she observed the vast arena where the masses had gathered to rest and sleep. Many in the crowd had already spotted her and called out, alerting others to her presence.

She gave a nod to her kin, who raised a bronze cornu and sounded it, rousing the entire stadium. To emphasize the moment, they activated a gemstone of light, casting a magical white light upon Francisca.

Now, tens of thousands of rioters stood across the four sections of the arena and along the racetrack, which was now filled with tents. Pressed tightly together, they leaned forward, curious about her intention.

"Good people of Midlandia, hear me." Her voice rang out, firm and commanding.

The rioters exchanged uneasy glances.

"The Lord of Midlandia has ordered you to disperse. Head west or south in small groups, and show no signs of hostility. If you comply, then by tomorrow morning, the towns and cities along your path will receive you. The Lord’s men have been purchasing supplies and will provide food for your journey home. However, if you refuse and remain here, the Lord will send his army against you."

The announcement sent a ripple through the crowd. Whispers, shouts, and gasps rose in waves of confusion and disbelief.

Francisca didn’t pause. She simply raised her voice over the growing unrest. "There is still a bit of sun left. Leave now. We begin the attack in one hour."

An uproar followed, a chorus of rage and defiance rising from the tens of thousands packed into the arena. Some shouted at each other, others cursed openly at Francisca and her men. Fists clenched, tempers flared, and the press of bodies grew restless, movement stirring in every direction like a disturbed hive.

From the crowd, a group of suspiciously well-dressed individuals stepped forward and shouted, "We merely reported injustice. Can’t the Lord listen to his subjects? We—"

Before the man could finish, Francisca grinned as one of her men handed her a lit glass bottle. With ease, she lobbed it toward the speaker. It shattered at the man's feet, and he recoiled as the liquid inside released a thick white plume that quickly began to swell and spread. As the white smoke churned, screams erupted. Panic swept through the crowd like fire through dry grass. People shoved, stumbled, and trampled one another in a desperate scramble to escape the growing cloud. Coughing and wailing broke out as the smoke burned their lungs and eyes.

It was the alchemist’s Burning Sands, and she had been permitted to use it in moderation to sow chaos. The Lord had instructed her to escalate the tension, to show that his threats were not empty and that his tolerance was nearing its end.

Even though the arena was open-air, it was still confined by the seating rows, wooden construction, and high walls, making the attack all the more effective.

Still, one vial of Burning Sands wasn’t enough to cover the entire arena. At best, it panicked a small section, while the rest remained on edge but held their ground. To them, Francisca called out, "The Lord’s patience wears thin. March west or south now, and by tomorrow, the cities and towns will greet you with breakfast. Fail to do so, and you will meet our spears within the hour. Make your choice."

The majority of rioters remained unconvinced and shouted a barrage of responses, including repeated demands, outright accusations, and even threats of rebellion.

Francisca didn’t react. She simply traveled to another location outside the arena, accompanied by two of her kin. They were the only reinforcements the city could safely send. As half-breeds, they could scale walls and traverse heights that would kill an ordinary human.

"Where to now, sister?" one of her brethren asked as they landed on an empty seating platform.

Francisca walked toward the wooden wall and glanced down at the steep drop below. "To where the crowd is," she answered, then leapt without hesitation.

The trio jumped, drawing attention as they landed and searched for good positions to make the announcement. As the Lord had instructed, the goal was to divide the crowd and separate the agitators from the fearful. Thus, their mission was to spread the message to as many as possible, so that fewer would stand in their way and more could be spared the blade.

On one hand, the Lord bribed the fearful with promises of food and safety. On the other hand, he issued the sternest threats to those who remained defiant.

After her sixth announcement, three of which were delivered peacefully and three that ended with her throwing the Burning Sands, they returned to a secluded part of the arena to catch their breath. Their white furs caught the evening wind as they sat down, resting their legs from the repeated climbs and jumps.

The one closest to her in age spotted movement along the arena’s edge. "Hey, it’s working," she exclaimed.

Francisca followed her gaze and saw that people were starting to march. "Heh, not all have the stomach to stay, especially after getting a taste of the Burning Sands."

But the youngest among them remained doubtful. "Still, I don’t think this will make them all leave."

"Indeed," Francisca admitted, her concern finally surfacing. There was no army within reach, not even within an hour’s march. "I doubt this alone will be enough. Worse, the Lord doesn’t have the men to back his threat."

"He doesn’t?" her kin asked, startled.

"No," Francisca said plainly.

"Not even if he pulls all the troops from the city?"

"Even combined, it's less than four hundred. And he needs at least a quarter of that to protect the castle," Francisca explained.

"Then how will he end the riot? He said one hour, and half of it’s already gone," the youngest pressed.

Francisca grinned wearily and looked up at the night sky. "I don’t have the slightest idea."

***

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