Chapter 418 — The Road of Vengeance

After more than ten days of flight, the surviving noble army—perhaps the last bloodline of glory on this southern soil (at least, that was what the men in the ranks believed)—had finally reached the end of their journey.

On the northern frontier, the magnificent fortress standing upon the border line of the Plains of the Holy Spirit finally appeared before them.

When the towering walls of Stonehold Fortress came into view, Viscount Carroll was nearly moved to tears. The wind cut across his face—cracked and ashen from days of hard trekking and neglect—stinging like the slice of a blade, yet the viscount could now fully endure and ignore that pain. He at once flung up his arm and shouted to Viscount Consco beside him: "Look! Stonehold Fortress! We've made it at last! We're safe!"

"Thanks be to the gods for their protection..." Viscount Consco said excitedly as well, and did not neglect to cast a glance at the admirable lady of surpassing resolve leading the column not far off. "And thanks to Viscountess Ropenny... she truly saved us all!"

Viscount Mari Oran could not help glancing toward Ropenny Geran as well. When he saw that slender figure on horseback, a brief, complex expression surfaced on the face of the viscount whose domain lay only a small river away from the Geran domain.

She truly was a lady of firm resolve... firm resolve indeed.

But that fleeting complexity vanished in an instant; the sense of security brought by reaching Stonehold Fortress safely now triumphed over all else.

The commander of Stonehold Fortress, Sir Marchi, who answered directly to the royal house, stood upon the high battlements, watching every change around the fortress with a wary eye.

Of late, the tidings arriving from both north and south of the fortress had filled this high-ranking knight-lord with deep foreboding. He had heard of the great upheaval in the royal house—though only partial and uncertain reports, it seemed a cataclysm was about to descend upon this kingdom. But what worried him more lay to the south: south of Stonehold Fortress, that Cecil family which had lain silent for a hundred years had finally stirred from its silence.

Merchants traveling north and south brought astonishing news, one report after another. First came word that more than forty nobles of the southern realm had suddenly united to march against the Duke of Cecil; then, before long, came the direct report that the seventy-thousand-strong noble coalition had been annihilated by Cecil's Grand Mage Corps—though where on earth this fantastical "Grand Mage Corps" had come from, no one could say.

When Sir Marchi received these reports, he simply could not believe they were true. A joke, surely—a coalition of seventy thousand men! How many people did the whole of Cecil hold even now?

Seventy thousand men, no less—seventy thousand led by noble lords and knights! Even if they were seventy thousand pigs, and you set the Cecil men to catching them, there was no way they could have caught them all so quickly!

Yet what happened afterward was deeply unsettling, unsettling enough that Sir Marchi could not help but believe the southern merchants' tales were true—for after that, all communication with every noble house in the south was cut off entirely.

Nobles in remote regions might go months without contact with Stonehold Fortress, but even the Carroll family, just beyond the hills to the south, had gone silent. That was a bad sign indeed.

Sir Marchi paced somewhat irritably along the battlements, weighing in his mind whether he ought to dispatch a squad of knights south to investigate—or send an envoy party under the pretext of visiting the Carroll domain to have a look south. But just as these thoughts were taking shape, an aide-de-camp suddenly came running up from beside him.

"General! Below the fortress... there's a great crowd of people come to the fortress!"

Sir Margrave had always made a habit of having the soldiers address him as "General" on every occasion—a practice he had cultivated ever since taking command of this fortress. Looking at the adjutant before him, whose expression betrayed a touch of fluster, the General's face showed a hint of displeasure: "What is there to panic about—just what sort of crowd is it?"

"They look like beggars—but they claim to be nobles from the South!"

Sir Margrave's expression froze.

It seemed he would not need to send any knights or envoys to the South after all.

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