Valor and Violence

Erskine Erwell stood at attention, doing his best to stifle a yawn. He was waiting for the noble seated before him to finish deliberating with his sycophants, exactly where he had been ten minutes ago because every man and his dog needed to get a word in, apparently. They were the usual court detritus; spoilt and soft, men without the aptitude to satisfy their ambitions and so they drifted until landing in a court whose insecure noble would welcome their false niceties. To pass the time, Erwell inspected each of them, moving on to the next as he dismissed them in turn.

Until his eyes locked with those of a foppish Tok Risim man, standing silently behind Lord Politis. While the rest of the crowd was focussed on their benefactor, whispering ill-conceived advice and baseless praise, this man’s focus was solely directed at Erskine. The mercenary was dressed in a crimson velvet cavalier hat with matching shirt and trousers, a black tabard over his top bearing a stylised lion’s head. He looked like an absolute twat, especially with his long, pointed moustache and goatee, but the icon on the tabard betrayed the dandy’s status as an elite duelist from the infamous Crimson Lions Company.

What a man of his reputation was doing in the court of a Calandorian noble was anyone’s guess, but it lent credibility to Oliver’s assertion that the local lord couldn’t be trusted. After a few seconds of glaring at each other, the mercenary gave Erwell a smug grin and rested a hand on his rapier’s ornate basket hilt. With a barely audible scoff, Erwell turned his attention away, taking in the rest of the hall.

It was nice, all things considered. Reminded him of home. Solid, dark wood panelling on the walls, a central firepit to heat the space, and a high ceiling with a vent in the centre to stop the smoke becoming too thick at ground level. The cultural bleed from across the Skjar border was clear, even though they were further south than his home province. But tucked in amongst the homely decor were signs of greater affluence and cosmopolitanism. A ridiculously large high-backed chair collected dust in a reading nook, the arms laid over with gold leaf and studded with jewels. Nearby, a statue of Politis himself rose toward the ceiling, carved from pure white marble, though its physique bore little resemblance to the small man seated on his throne.

Erwell shook his head in disgust. This had been a wealthy, but fairly minor house until recently, when the lord’s son was discovered to possess an incredible amount of raw power as a mage. Certainly more than the current court mage, a rather ratty looking fellow from the earth college. Noble families, both near and far, had begun forging bonds to prepare for the coming power shift. How Politis had chosen to reflect his newfound status spoke volumes of his character.

His nasally voice brought Erwell’s attention back to the throne. “My dear Erskine, if I might be so bold as to call you that, I must confess I feel this is all quite unnecessary.”

Erwell frowned as he stared at Politis’ nauseating smile, insincerity dripping from it like poisoned honey. The response was unexpected.

“I prefer Captain Erwell, Lord Politis. Though Captain is fine if you wish to be informal,” Erwell said, prompting a guttural snicker from Groth. Erwell shot a warning glance over his shoulder to silence the giant man, who obediently shut up, though his face still twisted into a grimace as he suppressed his grin.

“The King disagrees with your assessment,” Erwell continued, giving Groth a final warning glare before turning back to the throne. “He felt an entire company of soldiers going missing in the Ironwood is quite concerning.”

“Even so, to send such an esteemed captain from the Royal Marine Corps seems… if not excessive, then inappropriate for the task at hand.”

“I’m just here as an escort and liaison to your court, milord. Mister Woodlocke here will handle the investigation.”

At the mention of his name, Oliver Woodlocke shuffled forward until he was standing beside Erwell. His bald head bobbed along with every word he uttered, and his eyes didn’t stop darting around the room.

“Greetings, milord,” he mumbled into his bushy ginger beard. “Uh, my apologies and can I just say that I quite understand your assessment, but, uh, unfortunately, the King did want this investigated, to placate the lords and ladies at court, you see? So, I was dispatched to conduct the investigation.”

Politis regarded the man with narrowed eyes. “And you are? You don’t look like a member of the constabulary.”

“Ah! Yes! Very astute, milord. You see, I’m actually the assistant to the district commissioner for the Griffon’s Keep upper districts. He volunteered my services to the Crown.”

Politis’ expression softened as the gears ticked over in his head. Erwell could practically see the thoughts aligning as he came to some key conclusions. Namely, that the Crown wasn’t taking this seriously, sending a bureaucrat instead of a proper police investigator.

The lord’s eyes slid across to Erwell next, their corners crinkling in mirth as the captain’s role in this became ‘apparent’ too. No doubt Politis had put out feelers to discover Erwell’s background; that of a second son to a minor noble from the northernmost backwaters of Calandor. In other words, a man of no political note. To people like Politis, this black mark would be more significant than his reputation as a commander. Satisfied he was in control of the situation, Politis leaned forward in his seat, planting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers.

“Of course, Mister Woodlocke. I understand your position. If I may ask, what are your initial thoughts?” Politis’ expression remained relaxed, but his gaze took on a predatory intensity as it bored into Oliver, who squirmed under the gaze.

“Well… it is supposed to be closely held information until the investigation is concluded but…” he glanced at Erwell, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head then resisted sighing as Oliver kept talking anyway. “I think it is most likely they deserted. After all, what could possibly bring an entire company to misadventure? I honestly don’t see any alternatives.”

Politis nodded, a broad smile on his face. “An astute assessment, Mister Woodlocke. I can see the Crown has placed this investigation in capable hands. What assistance do you need from my court?”

Oliver let out the breath he had been holding with a relieved sigh, producing a handkerchief from beneath his traveller’s cloak and dabbing at his forehead. “I won’t ask for much, milord. I understand that with a rogue company of soldiers in the woods, you will want to keep your forces around the city to safeguard your people. If I could just request a local guide, maybe a woodsman or game warden? I just need to find evidence the company is alive and well, then I can report back to Griffon’s Keep. A regional army will be along shortly after to resolve the issue.”

“My good man, surely you would appreciate more help? Ask and you shall receive!” Politis replied, waving with an arm to encompass the hall.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly impose like that, milord. Really, a guide will be enough, and I will mention in my report how eager you were to assist us.”

“Then at least stay and enjoy a meal with us? I have some excellent kitchen staff, my feasts are the envy of the north!”

Erwell stepped forward, cutting Oliver off with a firm hand on the shoulder before he could say anything. “Thank you for the offer, Lord Politis, but we must return to our lodgings and plan our search route. Enjoy your meal.”

He turned to leave, but the lord’s voice stopped him. “My, oh my, but you are quite the professional, eh? Captain? Certainly, Mister Woodlocke seems sure of your capabilities, but I wonder. Will you really be able to protect him if the worst were to happen?”

Erwell groaned. He had neither the time nor the patience for whatever show the lord had planned. He slowly turned and found the mercenary striding onto the audience floor, casting off his cape with a flourish as he drew his rapier.

“Would you mind demonstrating your abilities against my champion here? I feel an obligation to ensure the Crown’s representative in my lands is properly defended.”

Erwell met Politis’ eyes and gave him a strained smile as Groth stepped up beside him.

“Want me to handle ‘im?” the giant marine asked.

“No,” Erwell replied, exhaling loudly through his nose. “I’ll deal with it.”

He unfastened his cloak, handing it to Groth before stepping to meet the mercenary. The man looked him up and down as Erwell drew his sword, damnable smirk still in place.

“I know your name, Captain Erwell, but I don’t believe you know mine.”

“I don’t particularly care,” Erwell replied, giving a lazy salute with his blade.

The grin widened. “Even so, you should know. I am Dalion Laschane, of the Crimson Lions, at your service,” he said with a low bow. Holding his position, he looked up at Erwell. “You may have heard of us.”

“Aye. You done?”

If his flippant attitude offended Dalion, the man gave no sign as he straightened up and sank into a fencer’s stance, his rapier pointed at Erwell. “Of course. We may begin.”

Erwell sprinted at the mercenary, slapping the rapier aside and driving forward, trying to get within Dalion’s guard. The mercenary danced back, the rapier coming back up to its original position before he fired a rapid series of thrusts at Erwell’s face and torso.

His speed and accuracy were shocking, putting Erwell on the defensive. He could barely keep up with the flurry of strikes as he backpedalled. As the onslaught continued, he became keenly aware of his sword’s weight in relation to the rapier and its shorter length. The longer the fight went, the faster he would fatigue and the more opportunities he had to make a critical error. Whatever it took, he needed to get in close to this bastard or it was a matter of time before he missed a parry.

He planted his rear foot, and as the next thrust surged towards his face, he drove the flat of his blade against it, driving forward with his own sword tip pointed at Dalion. Metal screeched against metal as Erwell’s counterattack rushed towards the mercenary’s face, the man’s eyes going wide as he fell back, narrowly avoiding the strike. He regained his composure quickly, and tried to go on the offensive once more, but Erwell was prepared this time, sticking close and striking too quickly for Dalion to regain the initiative.

Nearly… there… Erwell thought as he grit his teeth. He just needed to keep the offensive going until he found the opening he needed to finish the fight.

And then Dalion stumbled, his ankle turning as his foot hit the ground at an awkward angle. With a triumphant shout, Erwell swung the sword over his head, bringing it down towards the mercenary’s forehead. He stopped the blow just short of connecting, eyes boring into Dalion’s as his chest heaved with exertion. The mercenary was smiling.

“Oh, bravo!” Politis said, clapping. “What a spectacular display! A draw! I never could have predicted it!”

Erwell glanced down and saw Dalion’s off-hand holding a stiletto to his gut. Erwell grunted and retreated a pace, glaring at the mercenary, who kept smiling back.

“Bravo indeed, Captain. You are quite the proficient fencer. I wonder if we will have the opportunity for a rematch?”

Erwell didn’t bother replying as he turned on his heel and stormed out of the hall, Groth and Oliver falling in behind him. None of them said a word until the doors were shut behind them, and the echo of Politis’ laughter had died away.

“I think that went well,” Groth said, breaking the silence as his commander stormed through the halls.

“Bullshit,” Oliver said. “Everything was fine until the good captain decided to show off.”

“What was I supposed to do, Oliver? Roll over like an obedient puppy and show my belly?” Erwell protested.

“That’s exactly what you should have done,” Oliver said. His voice was measured and lacked any obvious emotion. He knew he was right, and that was enough for Erwell to feel guilt.

And feel it he did. He had jeopardised everything. The spy had outlined their approach during the trip to Politis’ estate. He would play the meek bureaucrat to throw the noble off his scent as the Royal Spymaster, while Erwell would play the role of the quintessential noble officer, holding rank by virtue of birth, not aptitude.

Given Oliver’s suspicion of Politis, it was important they presented themselves as not only unthreatening, but incompetent. It would ensure that leaving them to go about their business was seen as the lesser of two evils, the greater being quietly ‘removing’ them without the Crown suspecting Politis’ involvement. And Erwell had just shown that, if nothing else, he was a dangerous individual, the equal to Politis’ champion. Still, Erwell couldn’t accept his mistake without defending himself.

“It was necessary. Politis wanted to know if his lapdog could kill me should it come to it. If I made it too easy, he may have ordered our deaths to thin out the playing field. Now he knows that there’s an element of risk, he’ll do it as a last resort.”

“Erwell, I know you’re not stupid enough to believe that,” Oliver said, Erwell wincing at the man’s ability to see right through him. “Now he knows you’re personally dangerous, he’ll be planning other contingencies besides a midnight knifing in the woods. When he figures out what we’re up to, we’ll face either overwhelming force, or some other method that renders your aptitude with a blade completely moot. We can only hope to find the proof we need and be gone before he realises.”

Erwell had nothing to say to that, so he kept walking in silence.

“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t have brought an army with us. It’d make it a damn sight easier to investigate than sneakin’ around,” Groth said, his deep voice rumbling through the hallway.

“Shhh!” Oliver hissed. “Honestly, I thought you marines were meant to have an affinity for clandestine operations?”

“Aye, we do. Clandestinely slittin’ throats, not swanning about pretending to be soft cock dandies,” the big man replied.

Oliver shook his head. “Pantheon, give me strength. This is why I hate working with the military.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Groth muttered.

“Enough!” Erwell said, interrupting the bickering. “Oliver, I’ll ask you to afford my sergeant major the respect he is due as a senior soldier within the King’s Marine Corps. And Groth, the King can’t just march an army in and place the lord under house arrest before guilt is proven. He is the single most powerful man in the kingdom, but riding roughshod over the rights of his nobility is a good way to start a noble’s revolt.”

“Figure some of them could do with havin’ their heads cracked together a wee bit. I mean, we’re here now, aren’t we?”

“True, but the king can’t ‘crack’ all their heads at once. And a revolt would expose us to our enemies. Aderath would seize the mountain passes, and we’d be hard pressed to retake them. Meanwhile, Emrinth could pillage our southern shores with abandon while we killed each other inland. I understand your frustrations, CSM, but we need to play the game for now.”

The big man grumbled but refrained from saying anything else as they left the hall and turned toward their lodgings.