Chapter Text
The midday sun trickled through the manor’s windows, casting thin rays of light into the long stone hallway. At the midpoint of the hall, two heavy doors marked the entrance to the manor’s audience hall. The muffled sounds of heated discussion could be heard from the other side, as Marquess Nephilis was currently holding court with his vassals. On either side of the doors stood a guard, each decked out in well-polished chainmail, their hand resting easily on the hilt of their sword. The younger of the two guards exhaled, glancing at his compatriot, a bearded man whose summer years were well behind him. He couldn’t have been stuck with anyone duller, even if he’d been standing watch with a stone.
“Some days I regret not enlisting in the legions instead,” he said, clearing his throat to catch the older man’s attention.
When all he got in response was a terse grunt, his mind started wandering once more. As boring as guarding this hall was, it could be worse. Being up on the walls wouldn’t be much more exciting than being in here, and he’d have the weather of the harvest season to contend with. Better to be bored than to be risking a sudden burst of rainfall leaving him soaked for the rest of the day. But really, either option was still a letdown. He adjusted his helmet for the third time in the past minute, just to have something to occupy his hands.
“I mean, sure, the pay is good, but I thought we’d at least have a little excitement now and then, yeah?”
The older guard… actually laughed, turning to address his fellow for the first time since they’d taken their posts outside the door. There was a rare light in his eyes as he spoke.
“Yer new, ain’t ya, lad?”
“I’ve…” he paused, leaning his head back slightly. “I suppose I am. I was sworn into the Diamond Guards only a few months ago.”
“Well, that explains it. Ye haven’t met the young Lady Nephilis yet, have ye? She’s a right terror. I’d much sooner face my old sergeant than her when she’s in a bad mood. Betrayer’s beard, I’d even rather try to hunt a boar with a soup spoon.” He chuckled, and pantomimed what such an action might look like to further emphasize his point.
“What has she done that’s so–”
A loud crash from the other side of the audience hall doors answered the question before it could even be finished. The younger guard leapt a solid foot off the ground in surprise, his sword drawn halfway from its sheath as he swiveled around. The elder just laughed again, his posture just as relaxed as it had been moments before.
“I expect we’ll find out soon enough, lad. For now, what say we let our fellows handle things, eh? They’ll holler if they need us.” Saying this, the older man retrieved a small flask from his belt, taking a hearty drink before putting the cap back on and tossing it over to his companion.
“Don’t be shy, lad. A little liquor never hurt anyone, ‘cept all the yellow-bellied mercs I’ve thrashed in duels outside the alehouse.”
After a few seconds of contemplation, the younger guard shrugged and took a swig of his own.
~**~
The audience hall had been in uproar for the better part of an hour. However, it was not the usual complaints of the lord’s vassals regarding land disputes or how much less they ought to be paying in taxes that had the room in such a fervor. No, that honour went to bandits. A large gang calling themselves The Rat Pack had been wreaking havoc up and down Nephilis territory, and it seemed as though everyone in attendance had one grievance or another to air against them. Suffice to say, the aging marquess had lost control over the proceedings, which now resembled a drunken shouting match more than a distinguished court.
There were two prominent camps in the discussion –or rather, the argument– at this time. The first was made of those who wanted to wait for reinforcement from the kingdom’s army, pointing out that even a single one of Bloodwell’s legions would be able to swing the odds in their favour enough to make crushing the bandits merely a matter of time. But time was an issue for the other camp, who’d suffered the brunt of the bandit’s frequent raiding. Yes, a legion could help significantly, but it would take some time for one to be mustered and sent out from the kingdom’s heartland, time that would allow the bandits free reign to continue their crimes unimpeded. As far as they were concerned, they should all combine their own forces together and strike at the bandits while the iron was hot.
However, aside from the guards posted in the corners of the room and flanking the marquess’s seat at the head of the long table, there was one other person who had yet to utter a word since the meeting started. Sitting beside her father and watching the proceedings with a growing scowl was a young woman with long, magically dyed pink hair, drinking from a goblet as she tapped impatiently at the wooden table. A pair of sharp black horns framed her angelically beautiful face, an obvious sign of the emerging power of her saintly blood. It was a trait that hadn’t appeared in the children of House Nephilis for generations, a fact that was one of many sources of pride for Lady Irys.
The summit had already gone on much too long for her tastes, sullying her plans of a lazy afternoon spent perusing the manor’s library for one of the saucy romances that had been her late mother’s guilty pleasure. Instead, she was stuck in here, watching a bunch of self-important oafs argue in circles. “A lesson in leadership," her father had called it. She rolled her eyes, draining the rest of her goblet.
And what a great job of leading you’re doing.
“She’s making the lot of us into a laughingstock!” one of the guests –a very successful merchant, if she recalled correctly– shouted. “Parading her band of miscreants around the countryside and declaring herself to be ‘Baelz, the Princess of Thieves!’ It’s outrageous!”
That finally piqued Irys’s interest. If there was one thing she despised more than other people wasting her time, it was undeserved pride. Naturally, as the sole heir of House Nephilis, and a bearer of holy power, it would be wrong of her not to carry herself with a grace that made it clear just how much lesser everyone else was compared to her. But some mangy, backwater brigand calling herself a princess? That was a slight that she could not allow to go unpunished. Galvanized into action, she shot up from her seat and slammed her empty goblet down on the table like a gavel, nearly splintering the wood. Immediately, the eyes of the assembled gentry were fixed upon her, and she couldn’t help but smirk as more than one of them had to bite their tongue to hold it back from saying something rash.
“Enough!” she yelled, despite the fact that she had already firmly grasped all of their attention. Truthfully, she just wanted to see who would flinch. “You’ll get nowhere this way, arguing like a bunch of children. I’ll handle this so-called princess myself.”
The court was held in stunned silence for several seconds, until the merchant whose name she couldn’t bother to remember right now spoke up.
“And how do you propose that you’ll succeed where we have failed?” He sniped, but after a withering look from both Marquess Nephilis and his daughter, he was quick to amend his statement. “...My apologies, Lady Nephilis. I forget myself.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Irys saw her father silently gesture for her to continue, as if he’d planned all of this from the start.
“See that it does not happen again. Now, as I was saying, I intend to snuff out the bandits myself.” She paused, for no true reason beyond dramatic effect, relishing the deference she was rightly owed. “With command of the Diamond Guards, as well as some funds with which to hire mercenaries, I’ll have the bandits dead to the last before the first snowfall touches the ground.”
“Mercenaries, my lady?” One of the others interjected. “But what of our own warriors? Would you not trust them over common sellswords?”
“I would not. I can attest to the skill of our house’s men, yes, but the last hour has taught me to expect exceedingly little of yours. Of course, I’m sure you’ll all be more than willing to contribute your own funds to the effort, seeing as you have a stake in getting rid of these bandits as soon as possible.” A chorus of outraged cries suddenly erupted throughout the room as the gathered gentry fought to have their complaints heard over one another. Irys cleared her throat, preparing to demand order, but her father had already stepped in.
Marquess Nephilis had never been a physically imposing man, even before the twin ravages of illness and grief had exacted their tolls from him. Even now, there were whispers amongst the manor’s staff that it would be a miracle if he lived to see the first dawn of next springtime. But, when he tapped his cane twice against the ground, it was as though he held the authority of the king himself, and the clamouring voices abruptly fell silent.
“I, for one, will lend my full support to this proposal. It will be good for the people of our province to see the future marquise taking to the field to protect them. And while my esteemed house is more than capable of funding this endeavor alone, I urge you all to consider whether or not it is truly unreasonable for you to spare some coin as well. The alternatives, of course, being far less pleasant, either for yourselves or your men.”
“I didn’t think you one to make threats, Milord,” uttered one brave soul near the end of the table, her eyes narrowing. “And I urge you to consider whether or not this… endeavor would not already be financed by our taxes.”
“I’m much too old to be a threat to anyone, Lady Garland, even if I was the sort to try. As for the taxes, I seem to recall that you haven’t yet paid them this year.” The marquess stroked his chin as he spoke, as though the recollection had taken some effort.
“That was—“
“A matter we can discuss later. For the time being, may I propose we all allow ourselves a brief respite from this discussion, before you make your decisions? Dinner will be served shortly.”
Begrudgingly, the members of the assembly began to file out of the room, until only Irys, her father, and the guards remained. But, with a brief wave of his hand, the marquess commanded the latter to wait in the hall. Once they had left the room, he turned to face Irys, his cane thumping once against the floor.
“I must say, you handled yourself admirably, my daughter. A firm hand for leadership will serve you well, out here in the reaches. You were somewhat lacking in tact, yes, but that is something that will come in due time.”
“So this was your plan from the start,” Irys sighed, annoyed at being so late to catch on.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he smiled, raising one hand in a placating gesture. “But never mind that. You’d best be off to have your equipment prepared. I’ll keep our guests entertained and see to rounding up the required funds for your travels.”
“And what of the mercenaries?”
“I’ll send a courier up to the town. With any luck, you’ll have the extra swords before the week is through.”
Irys hummed in disinterested approval as she strutted out the door. As she took a right turn to head towards the armory, two of the guards fell into step behind her. In the few seconds to himself the marquess had, unseen by all, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Before the day was through, he’d have to pay a visit to the family’s shrine.
“Be safe, my daughter.”
In short order, Irys arrived at the manor’s armory, a long room tucked into the middle of the building, lit only by sputtering torchlight. Along the right wall were several wooden racks where weapons and armor were stored when not in use. Foremost amongst these were swords of various make, as they were favoured by the manor’s guards both for their duties as protectors and for their bullheaded contests of skill. One such sword, a finely crafted saber that had been presented alongside a set of half-plate armor as a gift for Irys a few years prior, was quickly offered to her by one of the servants responsible for maintaining the armory. However, she waved them off just as quickly, and continued walking through the room.
“May I ask what you’re looking for, your grace?” the servant asked timidly, placing the sabre back on its dedicated rack with trembling hands.
“A proper weapon, obviously,” Irys scoffed, picking out a spear from the rack before almost immediately deciding that it wasn’t good enough either. “For all of the talk of the artistry that swordplay supposedly holds, it’s exceedingly dull to practice it.”
One of her guards coughed. Irys mercifully ignored them, as her attention had just been captured by something tucked into a dark corner at the far end of the room. She wrapped her fingers around the leather-bound handle and pulled, drawing the weapon out of the rack and the shadows alike. There was a satisfying heft to it, and she gave it an experimental swing before holding it up to the light. What she now grasped in her delicate hands was a brutish iron cudgel, its wide head ringed with thick spikes designed to crush armor. It was an ugly thing, to say the least, although nobody in the room had the courage to comment on it.
“Perfect,” Irys grinned, the torchlight dancing in her eyes. “Go and inform the rest of the guard that they must gather in the courtyard tomorrow at midday.”
“As you command, my lady,” One of the guards replied, inclining his head before he made his exit.
“As for you–” Irys continued, turning to face the still-frightened servant. “Be sure my armor is freshly polished before tomorrow morning. My new mace, as well.”
Without dignifying the servant with a chance to respond, Irys left the cruel weapon in their hands and traipsed out of the room, guard in tow. When she finally made it back to her private quarters, Irys dismissed her guard and locked the door behind her. She had the rest of the afternoon to herself now, and she intended to make the most of it. She only hoped it wouldn’t take too long to find the mercenaries. The skills of the Diamond Guards were undoubtedly a match for the kingdom’s finest legionnaires, considering many of them used to be among the enlisted, but their numbers wouldn’t be enough to snuff out the entire Rat Pack on their own.
But even in spite of the arduous task ahead of her, when she splayed herself out across the plush warmth of her bed, Irys couldn’t help but laugh. Just as it always had and always should, everything was going her way. Roaming the countryside and crushing bandit scum into the dirt would be so much more entertaining than playing politics with a bunch of doddering old fools.
If it wouldn’t have been blasphemous to do so, she’d even go so far as to say she was one of the saints of old, reborn to walk the earth once more. There was nothing stopping her from thinking it, though. However, only time would tell whether or not her confidence was well-placed.