CHAPTER SIX
The great hall of Castle Larkridge echoed with the clamor of armored boots and heated voices, a stark contrast to the silent dungeons below where Queen Gwendolyn languished in chains.
Lord Aldrich stood at the head of a long oak table, his velvet-clad fingers drumming impatiently on its scarred surface.
Maps of the Ring sprawled across it, marked with crimson ink.
Castles and villages were circled, arrows depicted troop movements, angry slashes and curses denoted anger at certain events.
Above them, three candelabras swung in a breeze that was impossible to keep out, despite three feet thick walls and heavy wall hangings. The light from them flickered, throwing the long shadows from the room's occupants across the floor, making them look like they were dancing. Or fighting.
The noble cabal had grown since the coup, swollen by opportunistic lords and ladies who smelled power in the air like hounds on a scent.
That in itself had caused unrest. Those that had been there all along, those that had taken the biggest risks, eyed these newcomers with distaste, seeing them only jumping when the wind was favorable.
Could they be relied upon if and when things got tricky, nervy?
On the other hand, they needed numbers. The more people they had on their side, the more noble houses, and by default, the people who looked to them as well as, or even instead of, the crown, the better for the movement.
Baron Holt slouched in his chair, his drab robes hiding a paunch earned from years of indulgence, his small eyes darting suspiciously.
Lady Elowen perched opposite him, her green eyes sharp as daggers.
Lord Garrick paced the room's perimeter, his massive frame tense, the scar across his blind eye twitching with barely contained rage.
And there were others: nobles like Sir Draven of the western marches, Lady Mivan, a sly widow with ties to the merchant guilds, her fingers glittering with stolen rings, and Lord Varis, a rotund man from the western provinces.
As usual his attire reflected his profession and wealth.
Fine fabrics embroidered with the grapes that had provided his money and his entertainment.
His gray beard highlighted the redness of his face.
In days of old, it was florid from overindulgence.
Now it was anger at his lands being carved up for 'unworthy' farmers to grow wheat and corn that caused the coloring as much as the product of his vines.
Aldrich cleared his throat, his hooked nose flaring as he surveyed them.
"The Ring is ours," he began, his voice smooth as oiled silk.
"King's Court bends to our will, the remnants of the Shield Guard and the Silver are scattered or imprisoned, and the breaches.
.. well, they serve as a convenient reminder of the old regime's failures.
We've consolidated the garrisons, levied new taxes under the banner of 'restoration,' and our spies report that the common folk whisper less of rebellion with each passing day. "
Baron Holt snorted, leaning forward with a creak of his chair.
"Consolidated? Bah! Your 'consolidation' leaves much to be desired, Aldrich.
Reports from the southern villages speak of open dissent—farmers hoarding grain, refusing our tax collectors.
And in the eastern towns, like Eldridge and Barrowford, they've started singing ballads about the 'lost queen.
' If we don't crush this now, it'll spread like wildfire. "
Lady Elowen nodded, the raven pendant at her throat swaying as she gestured sharply.
"Holt speaks true. Your leadership is...
cautious, Aldrich. Too cautious. These potential threats must be met with steel, not subtlety.
Send the mercenaries—burn a village or two as an example.
Let the people see the cost of disloyalty. "
“If people are worried about filling their stomachs and those of their brood, they’ll not care a sow’s ear who sits atop the throne,” Draven said over a mouth full of dried fruits.
Garrick halted his pacing, slamming a fist on the table hard enough to rattle the goblets.
"And the queen! Why does she still draw breath?
She's a symbol, Aldrich—a rallying cry locked in our own cellar.
Execute her publicly, frame it as justice for Thorgrin's 'failures.
' The boy prince is vanished; without her, their line ends. We can divide the lands cleanly then."
“True, true,” Varis added, nodding vigorously. “While Gwendolyn lives, she gives them hope, a link to the old times. Snuff her out and you snuff out that hope. Sever that link.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.
Sir Draven crossed his arms, his weather-beaten face grim.
"Aye, the breaches hit my marches hardest. Beasts roam free, slaughtering livestock, and the peasants blame us now, not the old king.
If we don't act aggressively, we'll lose the west entirely. "
Aldrich raised a hand, his expression calm, though inwardly he seethed at their shortsightedness.
These fools saw only immediate gains, blind to the intricate web he wove.
"Patience, my lords and ladies. Killing Gwendolyn would make her a martyr, as Elowen herself warned not long ago.
Alive, she is leverage—a puppet we can parade when needed, her 'confessions' scripted to legitimize our rule.
Dead, she ignites uprisings we cannot afford.
As for the dissent in the villages..." He leaned over the map, tracing a finger along the southern borders.
"We address it not with brute force, which breeds resentment, but with cunning.
Our tax collectors will be escorted by larger contingents, and we'll spread rumors of Gwendolyn's 'madness'—how she invited the breaches through dark pacts.
The people are fickle; turn their fear against her memory. "
Holt's eyes narrowed. "And if that fails? Your plans are elaborate, Aldrich, but we've seen little fruit. The council was to share power equally, yet you sit at the head, issuing decrees like a king. Some of us question if you're fit to lead this... transition."
The room tensed, the air thick with unspoken challenges.
Aldrich met Holt's gaze steadily, his mind racing through alliances and betrayals.
Holt had influence in the merchant quarters, Elowen in the courts, Garrick in the military remnants.
To falter now would invite daggers in the dark.
"Question all you like, Baron, but remember: it was me who got Proudlock, me who effectively killed Thor, the man who many, even in this room, thought could not be killed.
It was my gold that bought the mercenaries, my gold that buys them still.
It was my strategy that seized King's Court without a prolonged siege.
I lead because I see the board entire, not just the pieces before me.
Aggressive action? Very well—I'll authorize strikes on the most vocal dissenters in the realm.
Garrick, you lead them. Burn storehouses, not homes; make it seem like beast attacks.
That will drive the peasants to our protection. "
Garrick grunted in approval, his fury redirected.
Elowen inclined her head slightly, though her eyes remained wary.
Holt leaned back, mollified for now, but Aldrich noted the lingering doubt.
He would need to watch them closely—perhaps plant evidence of Holt's own disloyalty, should it come to that.
As the meeting adjourned, the nobles filing out with muttered plans and alliances of their own, Aldrich lingered, pouring himself a goblet of the blood-red wine.
The dissent gnawed at him, but it was manageable.
Power was a delicate balance, and he held the scales.
Yet the true consolidation lay not in squabbling nobles, but in the shadows beyond the Ring's borders.
Tonight, he would tip those scales further.
*
Under the cover of a moonless night, Aldrich slipped from the castle's rear gates, cloaked in nondescript wool to blend with the shadows.
Two trusted guards flanked him, silent as ghosts, their hands on sword hilts.
The eastern marches were rugged here, cliffs giving way to dense forests that bordered the Wilds—a lawless expanse where the influence of the Ring had always been thinnest. But tonight, it was no random patrol; Aldrich rode toward a predetermined rendezvous, his horse's hooves muffled by the damp earth.
The barbarian horde had amassed there weeks ago, drawn by whispers of weakness in the Ring.
They were not the azure-tattooed tribes of the far north, but a fiercer breed from the eastern steppes—nomads hardened by endless raids, their banners depicting snarling wolves and bloodied axes.
Led by Khan Vargul, a warlord whose name struck fear in border villages, they numbered in the thousands, camped just beyond the Shield's flickering veil.
Aldrich's spies had made contact early, seeding the idea of an "alliance" that served his cynical ends.
The meeting site was a ruined watchtower, its stones overgrown with ivy, a remnant of ancient wars.
As Aldrich dismounted, figures emerged from the gloom—barbarian outriders, their furs matted with dew, axes slung over broad shoulders.
They eyed him warily but led him inside without a word, where a fire crackled in the tower's gutted hearth.
Khan Vargul awaited him, a colossus of a man seated on a pile of pelts, his braided beard flecked with silver, his eyes like chips of flint.
Scars crisscrossed his bare arms, tales of battles won, and at his side hung a curved scimitar notched from countless kills.
Flanking him were two lieutenants: a wiry scout with a bow across his back and a hulking warrior woman whose gaze promised violence.
"Aldrich," Vargul rumbled, his accent thick as the steppes' mud. "You come like a thief in the night. Fitting for a schemer."
Aldrich shed his cloak, warming his hands by the fire with feigned nonchalance. "And you camp like conquerors at my door. Let us dispense with pleasantries, Khan. Our arrangement stands?"
Vargul's lips curled in a predatory smile.
"The breaches in your 'Shield' grow wider each day.
My horde hungers for plunder—the rich farms of your south, the gold in your courts.
You promise us entry, unopposed, to raid select villages.
In return, we retreat when your 'heroic' forces drive us back, making you saviors in your people's eyes. "
Aldrich nodded, this man may be a savage but he had caught onto the plan quickly, seeing in it, the benefits for him and his people.
In Aldrich's mind, he was already envisioning the narrative: the nobles, united under his banner, repelling the invaders after a staged incursion.
The dissent in the villages would shatter; gratitude would bind the peasants to their new protectors.
Doubt would evaporate. Gwendolyn's imprisonment would fade into irrelevance amid the manufactured crisis.
"Precisely. You'll strike Eldridge and Barrowford—burn enough to terrify, but not so much as to cripple.
Take slaves if you must, but leave survivors to spread tales of your 'savagery.
' My forces will arrive in three days, defeating you in a glorious battle.
You'll withdraw to the Wilds with your spoils, and I'll ensure the borders remain.
.. porous for future raids, should you behave. "
The warrior woman snorted, her hand tightening on her axe. "Behave? We are wolves, not dogs on your leash."
Vargul silenced her with a glance, but his eyes held a glint that unsettled Aldrich—a calculating depth beyond mere barbarism.
"Your plan is clever, schemer. But the steppes whisper of greater prizes.
Your kingdom fractures; beasts pour through your magic wall.
Why settle for scraps when the whole feast lies open? "
Aldrich's pulse quickened, though he kept his voice steady. "Our deal is for scraps, Khan. Overreach, and you'll face the full might of the Ring's armies—breaches or no."
Vargul laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the stones.
"Might? Your queen rots in chains, your king feeds the crows, your heir is a ghost. My scouts report your nobles squabble like rats over cheese.
Perhaps we invade in earnest—claim the Ring for the horde, forge a new empire from your ruins. "
The threat hung in the air, all the more potent because it had an undercurrent of truth.
Aldrich studied Vargul, noting the subtle signs: the fresh tattoos on his arms, symbols of steppe gods invoking conquest, not mere raiding; the way his lieutenants shifted, eager rather than cautious.
This was no simple warlord; Vargul had ambitions that dwarfed their pact.
Could he be controlled, or had Aldrich unleashed a storm he couldn't quell?
"Stick to the plan," Aldrich warned, his tone steely. "Or our alliance ends here, and my archers line the borders tonight."
Vargul's smile widened, but his eyes remained cold. "We strike as agreed. But remember, schemer—the wolves decide when the hunt ends."
As Aldrich rode back through the forest, the unease coiled in his gut like a serpent. The barbarian's agenda loomed larger than anticipated, a shadow that could engulf his carefully laid schemes. Power was not just a balance but a gamble—and he wondered if he'd wagered too much.