Conquest of Avalon

Fernan X: The Montaignard

The sweltering air filled the antechamber, packed so tightly that Fernan could only see wavy outlines of the people in the room: Mom, gently fanning herself with a sheet of paper; Lord Guy Valvert, arms folded, disdain visibly radiating up from his warm body; and Duchess Annette Debray, the innocent life whom Fernan was to save.

“Kneel,” Lord Valvert practically ordered, sticking out his foot and then wiggling it as if crushing a bug.

I don’t know why you’re acting like I should already know that.

“It’s the custom,” the Duchess explained gently, shooting Valvert a chilly glare. “Though in truth, I should be using the ceremonial sword as well. I suppose I’ll have to make due with my arm, though it’s less than a savior deserves.”

“My lady.” Mom drew her knife from her belt and handed it to the Duchess, its blade twice as long as the one Fernan and the other villagers kept on them. Dad had insisted it was a better deal when he bought it, a lower price per pound of steel, but Mom had laughed him out of the room. ‘More than we’d ever need, at a higher price than we’d pay for what we do’, she’d said.

He’d started getting sick a few days later.

The Duchess nodded in thanks, accepting the blade and holding it at her side. “Fernan, if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Oh, of course!” He bent down, feeling the slightly cooler air nearer to the floor, the tile a strange mix of comfortably cool and uncomfortably textured, biting into his knee.

“Good.” Duchess Annette nodded, whispering something to herself as if rehearsing what she was about to say. “Fernan of Villechart, Alderman of the Mountains, you answered the call when no other sage would. You stood for my innocence, for the truth, when every other sage was cowed or convinced by Lumière’s lies. In a scant few hours, my trial shall begin, and you will stand against the full might of the Empire, twisted to corrupt purpose. The odds of success are low, and even in victory, you will make a lifelong enemy of the most powerful man in the city. You know all of this, yet here you stand.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Fernan said, filling the silence after her pause.

Her aura brightened, waving up and down in the heat. “Do you vow to honor your liege, to speak always in good faith, and provide leal service for as long as you shall live?”

“I do.” Fernan stopped, but Valvert’s hiss implied that he was missing something.

“You have to swear by something for it to count,” the Duchess whispered, unmoving.

“I swear by the Flame Under the Mountain, Gézarde.”

“Good.” She nodded, then continued with the ceremony. “Then I vow to cherish your service, to demand only what you can bear, and return, always, your good faith with my own.”

Oh, she makes vows too? For whatever reason, Lord Valvert hadn’t mentioned that when explaining the need for this.

Actually, with a bit more thought, maybe that wasn’t a surprise.

“Do you swear to give mercy to those who ask it? To never seek a fight over a wrongful quarrel? To help those in need and battle, always, with honor and humanity?”

“By my father’s soul, I swear.”

The Duchess’s head jerked back slightly, surprised, though she continued smoothly nonetheless. “Then I vow to honor your mercy, and to never turn your efforts towards ignoble ends.” Her aura wavered as she lifted the blade aloft. “Do you vow to protect the innocent? To fight against injustice? To stand against the evils of this world, so long as you shall live?”

Fernan felt his eyes swell, drawing in heat from the surrounding air. “By the fire inside me, I swear.”

Duchess Annette tapped the blade lightly against each of his shoulders. “Then rise, Sire Fernan Montaigne, Knight of Guerron. Rise, and fight for justice.”

≋

Fernan entered the camp from the front, flying over the edge of the mercenaries’ newly-erected wooden barricade, landing in a circle of fire forming under his feet. For good measure, he threw a small blast towards the fortifications, catching them alight.

All we need is for them to leave. Whatever it takes to make that happen without bloodshed is worth the cost.

The smell of smoke filled the air as the fire traced its way around the barricade, hurried along with some extra help wherever Fernan saw it flagging.

It wasn’t long before the shouting started. “Fire!” was the most common, but as more of the mercenaries began to stir, Fernan also heard some cry that they were under attack.

Good. As wrong as it felt to wield fear as a weapon, it would leave more people alive than using a sword in its place. Frighten them off, and there would be no need to kill anyone.

But these were hardened mercenaries, already preparing to besiege a city. Frightening them would take some doing.

≋

Green flames danced at Fernan’s fingertips, painting the dark canvas of the sky with the image of a rushing river cleaved in twain, swelling beyond its banks to swallow a raging inferno. His hands moved smoothly despite the marigold wine, or perhaps because of it, drawing the scene in more and more detail, in more and more colors, until he could picture it better than his scout’s eyes ever could have glimpsed.

Flat stones covered the ground in a square terrace, swallowed back by the earth with dirt and greenery. At the center sat a stone table, crack through the center, with vines crawling up towards the sunlight through it.

At first, Fernan thought the tree next to the table was part of the same overgrowth, but half of it was bleached and dead, and it moved too quickly to truly be a plant. The more detail he added, the clearer he could see the figure: a woman’s form split right down the middle, half lush with the red and orange leaves of autumn, half barren and white, unmoving. “Sit down”, the rustling leaves seemed to say as the wind swept by.

A man approached the table, shrouded in darkness, and took his seat. A muscular figure stood behind him, constantly flicking her eyes in different directions. “I wish you’d talked to me first, Cya.”

“I am talking to you now, Spirit-Charmer. I make no apologies for protecting my domain.”

“I was protecting your domain, just like I promised. Just like I know I owe you, after everything Avalon’s done. But you aren’t making it easy! Do you know how hard it was to keep the mill owners from sending everyone back to work? They have guards too, and—collectively—more than I do. My authority can only—”

“The Authority, are you? Then your domain is yours to maintain, not mine.” A white husk of a tree approached the table, standing behind the half-dead spirit in much the same manner as the muscular human guard. “I advise that you take care with your words. The people at this table are not the only ones listening.”

Fernan jumped back, the flames momentarily dissipating before he recomposed the image. How does she know?

The shrouded man nodded, pulling a lantern from his bag and setting it in the center. “Darkness leaves traces, but the light blots out all else.” Jethro’s words, though I have no idea where he would have heard them. His guard leaned in, striking flint and tinder together, and setting the lantern alight. “If you’re listening, Leclaire, you should know that I remain a man of word. Unlike some people. That will follow me through all hardship, just as your treachery will forever cling to you.”

Leclaire? Fernan supposed she could be doing the same thing, but he couldn’t see any particular reason for it. She’d already had ample chance to vet the man’s character in person. Leclaire would have no use for the reassurance Fernan was seeking.

“That was not my meaning, Prince of Darkness, though it comforts me to see you dispel some of the darkness clouding your eyes. Tend to your own affairs, including the terms of our bargain, and I will tend to mine.”

“This will be your problem if they string me up and march across the river to take back the mill. Your people are nothing but grist to my countrymen, despite my best efforts to sway them to the contrary.”

“Then you ought to be grateful,” another voice announced, booming out of a darkened red helmet. The figure was clad from head to toe in shining red armor, walking with slow purpose as if they’d been born in the suit. “Your countrymen are less likely to try anything stupid with the east bank under our protection.”

Fernan strained his eyes to get a better look under the knight’s helm, but the flame from the lantern swelled enough to obscure it, then the rest of the table, until the inferno was all that remained in sight.

≋

The first to attack him was Rosen, one of the few mercenary names Fernan had managed to hold on to. Ysengrin had pointed him out as a sage, which had made a slightly more memorable impression.

The blast of wind hit Fernan right in the gut, pushing him into the air, but all it took was a few small jets of fire to arrest his movement and fly back towards the ground.

He landed just in time to see another mercenary wind up his arm to throw an axe at his head. It traveled rapidly through the air, but compared to the rain of javelins that Glaciel had assaulted the city with, dodging out of its way was trivial.

At the edge of his vision, Fernan glimpsed the aura of a woman on a horse charging towards him, heavily armored with a lance in her hand. He felt the wind of her passing beneath his feet as he jumped, but a miss was a miss.

Fernan kept himself in the air, surveying the mercenaries as they regrouped and formed up around the leader’s son, the scrawny swordsman that Ysengrin had called Cawdor. In the gloom, Fernan knew that only the flickering green in his eyes illuminated him, but he could see them all clearly, including the leader still in her tent, and the dark figure standing over her with a knife to her throat.

Ysengrin, apparently, had decided that staying inside his own tent was a wiser course than joining the fight, a choice for which Fernan blamed him not in the slightest. If anything, it ought to make things easier.

“S-stand down!” Cawdor called out hesitantly. “We’re here on the Fox-King’s business. If you attack us—”

“Too late for that, Cawdor.” One of the mercenaries, unarmored, placed his hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder and pushed him back. His hair was red with the same aura as Lucien Renart’s, his voice stern and steady.

“I haven’t harmed a hair on your heads,” Fernan responded, keeping his voice as measured as he could manage. “Yet.”

“Where is my mother?” Cawdor stepped forward. “Why are you doing this? I thought you and the client were friends. What—”

“Skip past the talking, whelp.” Before Fernan could react, the flame haired man raised his bow and loosed an arrow, which buried itself in Fernan’s thigh despite his efforts to twist out of the way.

Still, Fernan managed to keep aloft, but the second arrow hit him in the shoulder, perilously close to his neck, bowling him over and flinging him towards the ground. By the time he could raise his head up, spitting dirt from his teeth, the mercenaries had surrounded him.

“T-tie him up,” Cawdor ordered, hand shaking as he gestured with his sword.

“You think that’ll hold him?” the flame-haired man scoffed, lifting his bow. “Only one way to put a sage like that out of commission.”

“He’s right,” Rosen added. “The kindest thing to do is make it painless. One clean stroke with your sword, then we’ll find the Commander and begin the assault on Guerron.” The sage bent down, meeting Fernan’s blazing eyes. “Any last words, Montaigne?”

≋

“Fernan!” The Maiden of Dawn coalesced from the flames, green hue shifting to hotter burning blue. “I’m so glad you kept to the appointment. I was worried, after last time. Sorry I missed it, but I had a personal crisis to deal with. Thank you.”

“I’m glad too, though you shouldn’t thank me yet.”

Even wreathed in flames, it wasn’t hard to see Camille Leclaire’s face fall upon hearing that. “The things I’ve heard, Fernan. Tell me it isn’t true.”

You’ve heard, and you aren’t trying to tear my head off already? “Count Valvert is hale and healthy, as are the Maréchal, Louise de Montflanquin, Raoul de Montgallet, and Lady Lazarre. Your uncle left the city long before things boiled over, and though I couldn’t say where he departed to, I assume he remains in good health. Lady Valvert may yet recover, though I can make no assurances. As you well know, bullet wounds are quite severe.”

“But.” The flames of her eyes grew hotter, closer to white than blue.

“But, in order to protect the citizens of Guerron from his cruel and unjust rule, Lord Valvert has been removed from power and confined to his chambers, with every amenity he’s accustomed to. His retinue have been extended the same courtesy, and we are more than open to negotiating their release.”

“Negotiating,” she spat. “A robber holding a knife to my throat offers my life for my money, and I’m to consider it a bargain? What happened? Things were fine when Lucien left.”

Fernan considered telling a more flattering tale than the truth, but at this point he was committed. “No, they weren’t. The people had no say in their rule, no rights to their own liberty, not even the barest pretense of equality. People can forget that when they have bread and warmth, or never learn it at all, but the injustice was there even before Guy’s cruelty shattered the facade.”

“So now you’re a radical? Really, Fernan? Aurelian Lumière was a cruel tyrant, but somehow you peasants never found fit to rise up against him.” The flaming apparition bit her lip, snarling with rage. “You should have come to me! Annette felt like she owed her cousin a favor, but the moment he screwed it up, we’d have packed him right back to Dorseille, along with his Bougitte wife if need be.”

“I tried. You didn’t answer. Lady Valvert forced the issue.”

“Did she?” Camille asked through grit teeth. “Because exile isn’t a death sentence, Fernan. All you had to do was ride out to Malin, and—”

“And leave an innocent man to die.”

“What?”

“Philippe Montrouge. Augustin Valvert owed him money, and he thought it’d be easier to point his nephew’s swords at the problem than pay up. They threw him in prison on trumped-up charges and rushed him to his demise. Valvert refused to let me represent him at the trial, what with my oh-so-trivial exile. We had to step in.”

“Mont—the merchant? All this is over some—” She snarled with rage, smoke streaming out of the specter’s nostrils. “Fernan, those trials will be a thing of the past. I’ve worked it all out. A Code Leclaire, where no man must face trial without a solicitor at his side, where no sages can use it as an instrument of political power. In the world I’m building, Guy would never be able to—”

“Are you trying to convince me? Because it’s done.” The words came haltingly. Fernan really hadn’t thought she’d be anything but furious, on the verge of sending Renart’s army to Guerron. This… Obviously she was mad, but not in the way he’d expected. “The glass lies shattered on the floor; we can’t pour the wine back in. Even if you feel differently, I’ve no doubt your betrothed and the Duchess want nothing more than my head on a pike, along with every Montaignard who helped me.”

She had nothing but silence to say to that, so Fernan forced himself to continue, keeping Michel’s words on bargaining at the top of his mind. “Since you’re apparently open to talking, these are our terms. Guerron is recognized as an independent nation, free from the Empire’s grip. We shall conduct our affairs and govern ourselves as one people, every one of us an equal. Gézarde’s coal will remain precisely where it is, under the control of him and his children, as it was before we encroached on their home and stole it from them. You won’t send the army; you won’t try to press any noble claims; and you’ll officially cede the Guerron Duchy to its people.”

Her phantom face took on a hint of… was that amusement? “You said everything but ‘or else’.”

Here we go. “Or else.”

Camille laughed, shaking her head in amusement. “Here’s my counteroffer: Apologize immediately and present yourself in Malin to face justice. I will speak on your behalf, explaining that you were only enforcing the soon-to-be-enacted tenets of the Code Leclaire, and will apply the appropriate pressure on the relevant magistrate to ensure that you go free, legally, to return the great favor you did me on the eve of Malin’s liberation. Guerron will return to Annette, and your ‘Montaignards’ will disband, providing us with any weapons used. Guy will be shuffled off somewhere he can’t do any more damage, and you can go to anyone that would still have you after hearing of your treachery.”

If it were just me, if I actually believed that Guerron would be in good hands, if I could trust her… The whole offer was shocking, but it fell far short of what was needed, even if it could be trusted.

“As for the coal, we need it. There’s no two ways about it. Avalon will invade us the moment we lack leverage over them, if we’re not a peer in industry by the time it occurs. Guerron too, in case you think you’re somehow exempt from the way politics work. But Gézarde, of course, will be suitably compensated for the loss of spiritual energy. I’m not in the business of depriving great spirits of their due. In fact, I am willing to commit, personally, swearing before him, to incite my people to provide him offerings matching its value, imbuing him with the same power that consuming the coal would have granted him.”

“You make one speech and that compensates them for the theft of their food?”

“I’m prepared to work for the rest of my life to ensure that Gézarde gets an equivalent value or better, Fernan. This is more important than your treason in Guerron, and the terms of the deal need only be between Gézarde and myself.”

And then the geckos are just as subordinate to Gézarde as we were to Guy. More, considering they need it to live. Gézarde already didn’t want for power, but with an arrangement like that, independence for any gecko would be functionally impossible. And it didn’t sound like Camille would be giving them much of a choice about it, either. And all of that assumed that she could even be trusted.

If they refused, she’d already gone to war against the sun once. And Soleil and his High Priest were both dead, while she yet lived, no doubt swollen with power from the lives Levian had taken in the White Night.

“Not good enough.” No point in fighting yesterday’s war, or conceding before negotiations have even begun. Neither Michel nor Maxime was here, but Fernan knew better than to discard their advice and bury his head in the sand. He couldn’t open negotiations with concessions and compromises, and there was no going back. Come what may, he was a Montaignard. “You haven’t considered our leverage.”

≋

“Any last words, Montaigne?”

Pushing confidence he didn’t feel, Fernan forced a smile. “Mara.”

“Mara?” The sage stood, brow wrinkled. “Does anyone know what he’s—”

His words were interrupted by a blazing torrent of fire passing inches above their heads. Mara let loose another blast into the thick of the mercenaries, who fortunately were alert enough to mostly dodge out of the way. The one who’d thrown the axe had his shirt catch fire, but he dropped to the ground and rolled in the dirt until the flame was extinguished, seemingly no worse for the wear.

Fernan felt immensely relieved, but he knew better than to let it show. Hands around the arrows embedded in him, he squeezed and burned them to ash, then sealed the wounds in the same fashion.

He stood next to Mara, circling his arms to draw forth a circle of flame around the still-recovering mercenaries, slowly drawing the top closed until they were trapped inside. Just like Jerome, he thought, faltering slightly. But no one would die today, and that was enough to shore up his resolve.

“Earlier today, I gave your client some free advice. He should have taken it.”

“He didn’t,” Cawdor said. “But we’re just doing our jobs.”

“So am I.” Fernan waited for a moment as Mara let out a threatening hiss. “Now I’m not talking to him. I’m talking to you.”

“We’re under contract!” Cawdor insisted.

“You’re mercenaries. Forever for sale to the highest bidder.”

“Our word is—”

“Also for sale.” And I’m counting on it. “You should hold off any further attacks. My associate has a knife to your mother’s throat.”

“What?” His aura dimmed with fear. “How—? When—?”

“Where and why,” Fernan offered. “You left a couple out. Don’t worry, I’m happy to clear things up.” He tightened the circle of his movements, shrinking the fiery dome surrounding the mercenaries and forcing them to coalesce tighter. “Courbet, get out here!”

Inside the mercenary leader’s tent, the shadowy figure hesitated, still holding her knife to Delune’s throat.

I won’t say it twice. Fernan exhaled a burst of steam from his nose in the direction of the tent, cloaking it in heat that was uncomfortable without being dangerous. “It’s alright. I talked to the face stealer.” I didn’t tell her about this plan, and she probably won’t be happy when she hears about it, but I did talk to her.

He sent more steam their way, raising the temperature, and that finally seemed to be enough to get Courbet to leave the tent, Mirielle Delune held close with Courbet’s blade nestled under her chin.

“Mom!” Cawdor cried out, his voice warped as it passed through the whirling inferno.

“Be smart, boy,” Delune grunted, causing Courbet to adjust her grip.

“This wasn’t the plan, Montaigne,” Courbet hissed through grit teeth.

“Plans change.” Fernan leveled his eyes at Delune. “Now all you can do is hope that they don’t change any further.”

The mercenary commander’s only response was to spit on the ground in front of him. Fine. Can’t say I blame you.

“Throw down your weapons,” Fernan ordered the mercenaries, stepping towards Courbet while Mara circled around her. “Especially you, archer.”

“Oberon,” he supplied, placing his bow gently on the ground. “Good enough for you, whelp?”

Fernan nodded, prompting the others trapped in the fire to lay down their own arms. Once he could see that none of them were holding their weapons, he dismissed the flames. “Keep a close eye on the wind sage, Mara. If he moves, kill him.”

Mara had already been instructed to do no such thing, but the request was part of the performance, and it had to be a convincing one if this was going to work. She skittered through the still-dissappating flames and closed her mouth around Rosen’s arm, the threat so obvious that no further words were required.

“Good,” said Fernan, though this felt anything but. “Now we can talk.”

≋

“You haven’t considered our leverage.”

Camille shook her head. “Kill Guy if you want. The bastard’s been asking for a knife in the back ever since he started dancing to Lumière’s tune. If anything, he deserves it now more than ever. It won’t change anything.”

Fernan forced a laugh, false enough that he worried Camille could tell. “I’m not talking about Guy and you know it. Magnifico is in our custody. King Harold is in our possession, to do with as we like. Avalon could invade Malin tomorrow and it would be our choice whether to do anything about it.”

The image hardened, flames tinting a paler blue. “You can only kill him once, and then you’re just as fucked as we are. Your leverage is worthless if your opponent knows you can’t use it.”

“But I’m not talking about killing him, Lady Leclaire. I’m no killer.”

“No?” She scoffed. “What happened to the mercenaries Eloise sent? We haven’t heard a word from them since they departed. And now I hear you have a problem with us mining coal. Am I to suppose that’s a coincidence?”

It was low, and it was brutal, but all of them lived. That was what mattered, right? “They were convinced to sever their contract and depart for greener pastures. A chest of Guy’s riches served as the carrot, and, as for the whip…”

“Convinced,” she repeated incredulously.

“All of them yet live.”

“I don’t care! The lives of some two-bit swords for hire are not the concern here. Whatever ridiculous ideas seem to have taken root in your head, make sure you drive this in too: we’re in it together against Avalon. If you screw things up with Magnifico, you’ll be condemning the entire Empire to be ground under the heel of their boot.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Camille. We have leverage.” Fernan let the statement hang in the crisp autumn air, Camille’s image flickering in the wind. “I hear they call you the Maiden of Dawn now. It’s an inspiring title, a lot to live up to.”

Her eyes narrowed, the blue hue of her flames softening slightly to a teal green.

“It makes it obvious just how crucial my help was, giving the information you needed to precisely time Prince Lucifer’s ouster to coincide with the sun’s return. I didn’t just exchange information to do you a favor, I’m complicit in your takeover of Malin.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. I already told you I owe you a boon, and I’m willing to do my level best to leave you alive and free, even after everything you’ve done.”

“That’s not what I mean. You set up Prince Lucifer, betrayed him, with my help. And it wasn’t because of his character. Unlike Valvert or Perimont, he wasn’t some remarkable tyrant. He was just standing in your way.”

Camille just kept staring, not denying his words. Which is useful, too. The vision was evidence, but not a certainty.

“You know him better than I do. What do you think would happen if I offered to give him his father back, in exchange for Avalon’s recognition and backing of a free and independent Guerron? No doubt he’d agree, but afterwards, would he be true to his word?”

From what I can tell, he would. If Camille believes the same, then we really can dictate the terms.

“He’s not the king. Not even the regent. If Magnifico slipped free, he’d be the one choosing how to deal with you. Do you trust him?”

Not for a second. “He could be made to swear before the spirits, to hold him to his word. In one sense, that’s more trustworthy than the prince’s character.” In another sense, he’s an expert at wording things to slip free of the consequences, as Lumière learned so harshly. Fernan would never bet the fate of Guerron’s people on Magnifico, not when it meant trusting his words and not his acumen, when experience showed it only wise to do the opposite.

But as long as Camille believed he’d do it, it didn’t matter. Her flames condensed to a white point of rage, barely resembling her face anymore. “You would sell all of us out to that warmongering tyrant, just to settle your petty grudges? And here I thought I’d seen the lowest depths of your treason.”

“Treason? I thought I was just enforcing the Code Leclaire.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she snarled. “If you put yourself at Avalon’s mercy, you’re not just a traitor, but a fool. Their territories are fleeing in droves, desperate to eke out independence rather than continue submission to their rule. The Magister of Charenton is sitting in my foyer right now, his rightful domain seized by your beloved Prince of Darkness. The Countess Dimanche is with him, and the Governor-General of Lyrion.”

“All the more reason to offer Guerron a better deal.” Fernan hoped that was a plausible bluff. Everyone was depending on him for it. “You said it was the two of us against Avalon, Malin and Guerron with Magnifico as our leverage. That can be true. I’ve told you what it will take.” He paused, trying to let the threat land with the weight it deserved. “If you aren’t willing to make it happen, the Grimoires will, and what happens to you and the city you worked so hard to take over is none of my concern.”

Fernan bit back his guilt, letting his eyes burn higher and brighter to augment his point.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” This wasn’t any different from the show of force in the mercenary camp. All Fernan had to do was sell the lie, sacrifice his own reputation for the sake of everyone else. He’d thought it would be easy, stooping to Camille’s obviously low impression of his character, but somehow it was taking far more convincing than he’d thought. “Oh, one more thing? Keep your fucking mercenaries away from our villages. That coal belongs to the geckos, and if you come after it again, we’ll burn them to ash.”

“You—”

“We’ll talk next month, if you can be bothered to show up.” Fernan pulled his hands apart to dismiss the flaming specter, Camille’s furious expression dissipating into the wind.

He felt himself breathing heavily, finally free from the need to perform, but his hands kept moving against his will, conjuring forth not the High Priestess of Levian, but something else, so portentous that the image forced itself into place even now that he was ready to be done. And—

Fernan felt his heart stop at the sight of it, a shiver running down his spine.