CHAPTER 277: PAX FRAGILIS

Pax Fragilis

East of Canardia

The rain had fallen almost without pause through the night, softening the world into a gray blur. By morning, it lingered as a steady drizzle, cold and unrelenting. The hill that yesterday had been dry and hard now sagged beneath sheets of muck. Dust, long gathered over the summer, was carved into brown channels and carried downhill. The soil, baked solid for months, drank poorly, leaving hollows and low ground choked with puddles.

For horses, to move in such conditions would have been a dangerous struggle. Yet for the Canardian giant ducks, it was their element.

With proud, measured steps, the ducks marched down from the hill at dawn, moving with ease and an almost arrogant poise.

Newly raised to armiger, Camp Commander Karl had ridden the ducks for only three days, yet the long hours in the saddle gave him and his riders enough confidence. Bolstered by ducks brought in from the breeding grounds, the flock now numbered fifty-odd. They had joined mostly for training and familiarization, never meant for an assault.

Yet the sudden rain proved decisive.

Even without the support of light riders, Karl chose to strike, knowing that if they stalled, the chance for a surprise attack would be lost.

The plan was simple: strike at anyone not mounted on a duck. Many veterans of the arena’s night battle trusted their mounts to act on their own, knowing the ducks needed little handling. Thus, in darkness and heavy rain, the riders pressed on, circling the hill to come up on the far side. With Midlandians among them who knew the ground, and a half-breed guide to lead even in darkness, it was a sound plan.

As they drew near, one of the riders held out a cloth for the largest bird to smell. The beast seemed to understand and gave a slow nod of its long neck. For the ducks, the memory of their slain in the arena was still fresh, and the lingering scent of incense stirred their anger anew.

When they arrived, still cloaked by drizzle, they unleashed their terrible might upon the unsuspecting rebels. In the opening clash, hundreds were trampled in their tents, dozens mauled to death, and a few swallowed whole.

The rebels broke under the onslaught. Some were cut down as they fled, others dragged screaming into the mud, while pockets of resistance were crushed beneath flapping wings and crushing bills. In the end, a few hundred were taken, among them their commander, two of his staff, and the baggage train.

It was an astounding success, and not Karl’s alone. It was his first assault with the giant ducks, and he leaned hard on his second-in-command, a massive, muscular man and former leader of hired swords now made lieutenant.

The towering lieutenant fittingly rode the largest of the birds, yet the flock seemed to know who held true command, judging by the words, bearing, and respect of the men around them. As their caretaker had said, the ducks understood hierarchy even among men, but in the end, they cared only for their alpha.

Their intellect made them far more capable, but it also carried a cost. Like destriers, the giant ducks were powerful but temperamental, never fully under command. Power was always a tradeoff: the stronger the beast, the more it resisted control. And the harder a rider tried to master it, the fiercer it fought back.

These were no tame pets, and none dared treat them as such.

Before they set out from Canardia, an accident occurred. A rider was pinned beneath a duck’s foot. It might have turned deadly if not for the intervention of many. As it happened, the man had just eaten duck broth. From that day forward, none who dealt with the beasts were permitted to eat duck meat or eggs. If they did, they were given a day of clerical duty away from the flock.

None wished to anger creatures with bills massive and strong enough to seize a man, crush him, and swallow him whole.

The morning sun climbed to its height, casting rays over the sodden mire and blessing all with warmth. Yesterday’s drizzle was no more. The sky was clear and blue with only a few clouds, and no sign of rain lingered on the horizon.

At last, the duck riders saw their camp after a bend in the path, where woods bordered the way. Dozens of men already stood at the foot of the hill, arrayed to receive them with crossbows at the ready. Two half-breeds were also out, basking proudly in the sun.

Thirty duck riders marched downhill, escorting hundreds of captives. Twenty more remained behind to guard the baggage train and captured horses, for it would be some time before the ground hardened enough for carts to travel.

“Look at that, rebels volunteering to surrender, eh?” one of the dismounted riders jeered as the captives were driven into camp. Their faces were hollow, their bodies shivering, legs caked in mud up to the thigh, and their clothes hung drenched and heavy.

“Hah! Not even ropes on their wrists,” another added with a snort.

“The ducks scared them witless.”

A roar of mocking laughter broke out as the shamed rebels were forced to sit in the mud.

None of the captives wore ropes on their wrists. They knew full well the ducks would gladly attack anyone who dared to run. The night before, they had seen or heard the one-sided slaughter. Even with three thousand men, their numbers counted for nothing. With the rain and the mud, none had expected an attack, and they were already weakened by hunger and cold.

Meant to riot and besiege a city in summer, they were ill-equipped for the march and the rain. The downpour robbed them of fire for cooking, and many had no tents for shelter. Desperate, men ran to the forest and rigged crude coverings, draping coats or scraps of leather over branches just to keep the rain from their heads.

Thus, when the fighting broke out, only those nearest the command tent stood and fought. The attack came so swiftly that the commander’s guards collapsed before the rest could even scramble.

To all who witnessed their fury, the sight was nothing short of legendary. Not only did the beasts fight, they kept watch through the long, wet night with scarcely any rest. Even when their riders dismounted to secure prisoners, the ducks continued to patrol on their own, doubling their masters’ strength.

They had lived up to the old tales that named them the perfect companions for a night’s watch.

After such a feat, the Orange Skalds among the riders were quick to shape a song about the Lord’s Ducks and their wrath.

"Oh, hear of the Ducks, the terror of night,

Feathers dripping with rain, eyes burning bright.

Through mud and through fire, they carried the fray,

And the rebels all scattered when Ducks led the way."

***

South Midlandia

With the capture of the last rebel army, the uprising, known as the One-Night Rebellion, was finally over. Instead of the horse-race finals that had been suspended for safety, the Canardians were given the spectacle of a triumphal procession. On the ninth day after the rebellion, the captured rebels were paraded through the streets, bound with ropes, their leaders at the front, mud-stained, bloodied, and bruised for all to see. Behind them came the spoils of war: the seized baggage train and the rebels’ weapons and armor heaped in carts. Riders on horses and giant ducks followed in order, marching proudly and becoming the center of attention as their exploits spread quickly and won the crowd’s wild acclaim.

At the heart of the procession rode Camp Commander Karl, honored with the triumph for his meritorious service from the start of the rebellion to its end. His new rank of armiger was proven well earned. Though the title still counted among the esquires, it entitled him to bear heraldic arms, placing him above common squires who only trained and served at their master’s side.

Though the celebration was modest, for it marked victory over fellow Midlandians rather than foreign foes, the people still thronged the streets. They cheered, shouted, and raised their cups, drinking deep in merriment as the city roared with the noise of victory.

Beyond the walls of Canardia, the Lord’s army of three thousand patrolled the province’s main roads, and order was swiftly restored. In the following week, with no trace of the rebellion remaining, the army was divided into three parts. A thousand marched back to Ploiesta by the river to guard the north against the Lubina faction. Another thousand marched toward the monastery and encircled the hill, digging ditches and raising palisades and barricades as they had been drilled.

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The last thousand were stationed in the cities neighboring Canardia to serve as garrisons and protection.

Despite the new peace, normalcy was slow to return.

Forty-six noble Houses named in the insurrection, along with their retainers, were under investigation by the bailiff’s office. They represented nearly every prominent family in the greater Krakusa region, and almost a third of all influential Houses in southern Midlandia. From the initial inquiries, more than a hundred nobles would likely face the death penalty. Likewise, over five hundred of their kin stood to be directly affected, most facing exile to the far corners of Lowlandia. In total, several thousand souls would be condemned to varying forms of punishment.

This did not include the hundreds of rebels taken alive, who were pressed into forced labor as they awaited investigation and judgment.

Naturally, with so many lives entangled, and with the noble Houses bound by ties to suppliers, peasants, artisans, mentors, and craftsmen, the entire province watched with rapt attention. Crowds gathered whenever word spread of another hearing, and messengers carried tidings to every town and city. Every few days, the bailiff’s court convened, sometimes in public, but more often behind closed doors for the sake of speed.

In this matter, the Lord chose not to attend, offering his bloodied armor as evidence of his subjects’ betrayal, and sending a half-breed as a guarantee against lies.

He made it plain there would be no pardon.

Treason would be paid in full.

By the end of the second week, half the nobles had already been condemned and awaited execution. A few had bargained through collaboration and faced exile along with their immediate kin. The rest remained under investigation.

Amid the high expectations surrounding the justice process, a different crowd began to travel to Canardia with a different set of goals. These folk came from various places not to watch the horse races that had been indefinitely cancelled, nor to trade or seek work. They came for one purpose alone: to catch a glimpse of the famed Lord of Midlandia.

At first, there were only a few dozen, lingering at a distance from the castle gates. But more kept arriving, and none would leave until they had laid eyes on Lord Lansius during his occasional travels through the city.

Soon they numbered in the hundreds, drawn from every corner of Midlandia. So much so that the Canardians gave them a name: the pilgrims.

The townsfolk treated them kindly, many seeing them as kindred souls, and they eagerly shared stories of the rebellion. Each tale, closer to the truth, sounded more unbelievable than the last. The Lord’s grand victory on that fateful night was already turning into legend.

And nothing delighted the pilgrims more than the tales whispered out of the castle by servants and maids, giddy with gossip about the moment the Lord returned from battle to meet his newborn. They spoke of his blood-soaked armor, his impatient stride, and the force with which he thrust the locked door open with both hands, all while shouting the beloved Lady’s name.

It was impossible to know where the truth ended and embellishment began, yet none cared, choosing instead to revel in the myth.

The stories swayed the populace, who grew to endear the Black Lord. Though he was a foreigner, and many still saw his rule as an occupation, none could resist a tale of heroism. Such things transcended identity, and his triumph against the rebelling nobles aligned much of the province behind him.

Nor was the growing support aimed solely at the Lord. As more was learned about the Lady, who, like them, had begun as a lowly esquire before her true heritage was revealed, educated commoners began to soften toward her rule. It was only natural. She embodied the oldest tale, that of a noble child cast away from rightful inheritance by envious kin.

In this regard, the Lady became the champion of esquire families everywhere. While they were not the majority, they formed a significant portion of the population, educated and able, providing talent to the fief and driving its economy.

There were also other surprises. The victory celebration saw Sterling take his knighthood. Others were lifted as well, some made pages, others squires, and a few even armigers, among them Francisca and Big Ben. Another familiar name appeared as well, for Reginald was counted among the recipients.

Though the former lord did not regain his freedom, he was granted a pageship and with it an official stipend. It was both an acknowledgment of his service against the rebellion and a formal acceptance of his place in the ruling House.

The commoners viewed this favorably. Reginald had always been popular, especially among the intellectuals. While some suspected his gesture was that of a desperate man seeking to save himself and rescue his family from exile, Reginald, on his rare outings from the castle, openly pledged his loyalty to the new regime. Still possessing his sharp mind, he debated those intellectuals who challenged him and defended his stance. With no small irony, he declared the ruling House potentially better than under House Bengrieve.

With him pledging himself to Lord Lansius, a cadre of intellectuals began to look more favorably upon the new order. Some even took a leap of faith, cancelling their plans to depart for other provinces in search of employment, and instead sought posts within the ruling House's growing bureaucracy. House Lansius, long hungry for talent, now received an influx of skilled individuals, some of them seasoned and of high caliber. Their arrival greatly strengthened its nascent grip over the province.

It was clear that changes were coming.

A populace once divided and weakened by the indifference of its intellectual class now began to consolidate, uniting toward a single cause.

***

Audrey

Another week had passed, bringing the tally to a full month since the fateful rebellion. Midday light spilled into the castle’s study, where Audrey and Lansius lingered in quiet rest. Their morning duties were finished, and they had shared a private meal. Audrey, her belly full, reclined in the new chair that supported her back, and she found it a pleasing way to sit. Meanwhile, Lansius stood at the window, gazing down at the crowd gathered beyond the castle wall.

Despite the renewed peace across the realm, Lansius faced a small crisis. Without turning, he asked, “What do these people want? There are hundreds just outside the gates, trailing me whenever I leave the castle. Can’t we tell them to stop?”

“They’ll leave on their own. Harvest is but a month away,” Audrey replied.

Lansius shook his head in disbelief. He crossed the room, sank into the guest’s padded chair opposite her, and stroked his chin, visibly displeased. At first, he tried to ignore it, but after three weeks of ceaseless attention bordering on worship, it weighed on him.

Watching him brood, Audrey felt the urge to correct him. "Husband, you don’t defeat thirty thousand and go unnoticed. And certainly not after remaining unbeaten through nearly ten battles."

“I didn’t defeat thirty thousand. And I was beaten that night,” he shot back without thinking, the words spilling out like a reflex.

A smirk tugged at Audrey’s lips. “You know I read the battle reports and the bailiff’s dossier, don’t you? And that both circulate among the officers, the esquires, and anyone of rank who wishes to read them? Wasn’t that specifically your order, My Lord?”

Lansius shifted with a touch of awkward honesty. Here, with only her, he shed the conqueror’s mask.

Audrey pressed, her voice low and steady. “Tell me, how many did you defeat that night?”

Lansius drew his lips into a frown and admitted in a sullen tone, “It was about twenty thousand.”

Her smirk softened into a satisfied smile as she remained at ease. “Even if it were tenfold less, it would still be phenomenal. And stories like that spread quickly.”

Lansius let out a long, heavy sigh.

“It is only natural for them to see your victory as something divine, especially with the Imperium in ruins.” She glanced at him, noting his disturbed look. Still, she pressed her point. “Lans, I must admit, even I am intrigued.”

He blinked and quickly met her eyes. Audrey eased forward in her chair; the springs carried her smoothly back to an upright posture. She leaned in gently and asked, “Tell me, O my foreign husband, are you not someone the Ancients have sent to us?”

“Even you?” Lansius’ tone carried pure surprise.

“Would you rather have me lie to you?” she boldly retorted.

“No,” Lansius answered, taken aback. He averted his gaze, sinking into thought.

“You might see it differently, since you come from another land with its glorious history of shoguns you tried to emulate. But here, the Imperium is everything. Now it is gone. And you arrived at just the right time, carrying a string of victories. Even to me, who knows you beneath the sheets, you still seem divine.”

“Last I checked, our child doesn’t have wings,” he tried to muster a retort.

“Why should he? His father already provides airships,” she shot back breathlessly.

Audrey knew she had won this exchange. Lansius was always weakest when the subject turned to himself. Despite his kingly command in war and council, in private, he remained the same man she had first met on a farm in Bellandia. Of course, he revealed that side only to her, and it made her feel special.

He sighed loudly and turned to the window, muttering, “This whole personality cult will do no good.”

“The council believes it strengthens support for our House.”

“Yes, but in the long run—”

“The Ageless One used to say, in the long run, even the best horse will die. So I’ll take that chance.” She rose to her feet and prepared to leave.

“Where are you going?” Lansius asked.

“Some sparring before the baby comes looking for me.” She buckled on her sword belt. Like the scabbard, it was well-worn, bought when they had first set out in Toruna. There were finer ones in the armory, yet this was kept for daily use within the castle.

“Sparring?" He frowned. "With who?”

“Who else?” she remarked, straightening the creases on her black dress.

“Francisca?”

“No. I need her ready in case something happens.”

“Then who else can match your strength?” he asked, knowing her mentor Ingrid was away on a critical mission.

“You speak as if I’m a bear,” she protested. “And remember, we still have Valerie.”

“Right, another monster in the House.”

A grin curved her lips as she teased, “You should join us.”

“No. Not in the training hall, and certainly not in the bedchamber,” he cut her off, wary of her little game.

“Ah, a pity. Perhaps you’ll change your mind after our order of silken undergarments from the Mercantile Kingdom arrives.”

“Your what?” Lansius asked, his disbelief plain. Audrey only chuckled and slipped out the door, pleased with her little mischief.

“Guard, get that woman back here, tie her up if you must,” he called after her. His jest carried through the chamber, and her laughter echoed from the corridor.

Audrey’s smile lingered as she walked away, savoring the game.

By the door, the guards smirked, amused at the closeness between their Lord and Lady.

...

It was deep night when Ingrid rode back to Canardia with a chosen band of individuals. Their faces were known to the castle guard, who let them through without question.

“Chamberlain,” Sir Sterling greeted her in the courtyard, while Francisca and the SAR guards watched from above.

“Sir Sterling,” she replied, her eyes sweeping over the other guardians as they gave her silent nods of acknowledgment.

Ingrid turned to her group. “Clementine, Ocelot, with me. The rest of you, stand down and take your rest.”

The Orange Skalds and SAR men drifted away to their quarters, their duty done.

The four made their way through the Great Hall, now turned into a nighttime barracks for the lower staff.

“How goes the investigation?” Sir Sterling asked.

“Not well,” Ingrid admitted. “We could not find it. Weapons, supplies, even silver, yes. But the Great Gemstone is missing. Worse still,” she continued bitterly, “there is no sign of that cursed Sir Hohendorf or the Saint Candidate.”

Sir Sterling let out a weary sigh. As they had feared, the gemstone had likely been smuggled into the monastery.

On reflection, it should not have surprised them. The two had already proven capable of hiding ten thousand rebels from their sight, and now they had slipped away again beneath their very noses.

This changed everything. The fragile balance of power was shattered once more.

Midlandia, following Arvena, Lowlandia, Nicopola, Elandia, and Tiberia, like every other domain of the fallen Imperium, could not escape the fire of turmoil and war.

***