Chapter 430 — They're Here
Blade of Dawn · Page 2 of 3
The Cecilians would not be the "gods from heaven" the southern nobles described—but neither were they a force to be taken lightly. Facing the onrushing Cecil army, Boulder Fortress would surely endure hard fighting. By Sir Maqi's estimate, the Cecilians' "skyfire explosions" would not break the fortress's magical barrier any time soon, but the garrison had no means whatever of driving back Cecilians who could unleash sustained magical attacks from a great distance.
The battle would likely become a protracted exchange of fire—or, to put it more dismally, a long bombardment of Boulder Fortress by the Cecilians alone, with the garrison hard-pressed to sally out.
Sir Maqi did not fear prolonged, bitter fighting. What truly worried him was Boulder Fortress's present isolation, with no relief in sight—and the steadily worsening state of the realm.
So long as that worsening state did not improve, then no matter how long Boulder Fortress held out, in the end it could not hold.
He clapped Viscount Carroll on the shoulder. "Let's go back. We need to relax—have a couple of drinks to settle our nerves."
They left the wall and came to the great hall of the fortress keep.
The moment Sir Maqi pushed open the hall doors, he saw Viscount Mari Oran in a loose dressing gown, standing in the middle of the hall with a goblet of wine, declaiming drunkenly to the maidservants. Not far off, Viscount Consco paced to and fro, his face full of anxiety—and judging by his complexion, he had drunk a great deal too.
"Ah! Sir! And my friend Viscount Carroll!" Mari Oran caught sight of those entering and at once raised his goblet high. "My respects to you both—you really must try this."
"Oran, you've had too much," Carroll said with a slight frown, his tone helpless as he regarded the man whose conduct had grown ever more unseemly these past days. "And why are you wearing a dressing gown in the great hall?"
"This is inside the castle. Inside the castle, one may wear a dressing gown anywhere..." Mari Oran laughed. "Don't worry, I'm perfectly sober..."
Viscount Consco came over, skirting round the now rather muddled Mari Oran. His eyes were full of gloom, and bloodshot from days of heavy drinking. "Sir, there's word from the south—"
Sir Maqi waved a hand before the other could finish. "No good news."
Viscount Carroll looked at his two friends with disappointment—one unrestrained and dissolute, the other sunk in dejection. The composure and dignity of noblemen had all but vanished from them.
And not only these two friends: nearly every other noble who had fled from the south to the fortress was in no better state.
These viscounts and barons gathered in the banquet hall, or burrowed into the town's taverns and brothels, squandering what little money remained to them, burning up their worthless energies in feasting and revelry—scarcely a trace of hope to be seen in any of them.
At that thought, he could not help raising his head and searching the hall for a certain person. Soon the somewhat gaunt figure of Lady Ropeni Glan came into his view.
The viscountess sat quietly in a corner, speaking in low tones with one of her knights. Though a faint anxiety showed on her face as well, that composed bearing of hers was utterly unlike the others.
Over these many days, Sir Maqi had observed this too. Looking at the other nobles in the hall, the high knight could not help shaking his head and muttering low: "No better than a widow..."
Beside him, Viscount Carroll heard the knight's muttering but could not make it out. He was about to ask when he saw the hall doors pushed open once again.
A knight in armor came rushing hurriedly into the hall, the clatter of steel boots on the floor echoing through the chamber at once. Those nearby fell silent and turned uneasy, suspicious eyes upon the knight who had burst in.