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Chapter Text

Gustadolph scrapes the mud from his boots with a grimace. Already filthy, and not one step from the carriage!, he thinks to himself. He hates leaving Ironstone, now that it’s truly his; he’s scarcely set foot outside his beloved castle in the eight years since Svarog fell. But, as he gazes up into the muddy, lonely terraces of Wolffort proper, he has to admit: Benedict is too valuable a tool to leave to his subordinates’ blundering. Aesfrost needs him, at least for now... if only to hold the mines, so recently re-won.

Gustadolph needs him, needs his strategy, to win the War of Blood and Salt once and for all.

Besides. If he goes in person, there’s still a chance the old man might change his mind… once he hears what Gustadolph has to say.

He and his party move slowly up the terraces, carefully, bringing all the army up behind. Gustadolph’s mighty Blackirons are here in force, as both a show of power and a promise. (And the execution of that promise, should negotiations fail.)

I almost hope they do, he thinks. I tire of these games. Aesfrost is mine, mine alone, and all shall know it.

He brings his party to a stop at the center of the second-highest terrace, with his two newest generals at his back –- as Sycras and Rufus, and their successors, too, have long since been sacrificed on his road to fame. He doesn’t trust the top terrace: not its narrow staircase, and not the obvious choke-point that sits just before the castle doors. It would be all too easy to spring a trap there. Besides, he can see Benedict, now, and the old man can hear him well enough from here… hopefully. One never knows, with age.

“Welcome to Wolffort, Archduke. To what do I owe your honored presence?”

Benedict stands at ease, at the very top of the terrace, next to one of Wolffort’s hideously provincial hawk statues. He bears no weapon, save that pretentious walking stick he insists on hauling with him everywhere, and Gustadolph sees no soldiers by his side. Good. It’ll be quick and easy to subdue him, if Aesfrost does need to make an example of his people.

“Enough pretense, Benedict. You know why I’ve come. Your last missive to me was… less than satisfactory. I am here to give you one last chance to amend it.”

Benedict shakes his head. “I will not, sir. Our agreement was for Wolffort to serve Aesfrost as a sovereign demesne. Not for Wolffort to become… your pet hawks. I’ve done several additional favors for you, because our interests have aligned until now, but I’m afraid what you’ve asked for this time is not in the cards.”

“Not in the cards? I hold the cards, Benedict. I say what happens in Aesfrost. Do you deny it?” Gustadolph can’t keep the anger out of his voice; he hates having been dragged all the way to the bumpkin-arse end of the country for this nonsense.

“As I said,” Benedict says, cool as ice. “Wolffort is sovereign. You yourself agreed to such. And I have sworn an oath to serve and protect this place, and only this place. If that is insufficient, then… I suppose we might make another deal, if you’ve any terms to offer?”

“Very well,” Gustadolph spits. “Here are my terms. Get down in the mud and bend the knee to me, here and now, or I’ll rip every one of your people from their homes, line them up in the street, and have every other one put to the sword.”

“Ah,” Benedict sighs, quietly regretful. “I thought you might say that.”

Before Gustadolph can react, the old man turns, pulling a slim blade from the cane in his hands. The generals on either side of Gustadolph start forward, drawing steel, but it’s too late – no one stops Benedict as he turns, lightning-quick, and… cuts the top off the hawk statuette. Its wooden head slides off to the side, with almost comic slowness, and then plops down onto the earth at Benedict’s feet.

Gustadolph nearly laughs. Is he trying to intimidate me? With that? Then there’s a soft click from somewhere behind him, and an odd contraption springs up before his eyes: a ragged fence made of sticks and rope, perhaps eight feet tall, like an enclosure one might build for a pet. There’s a bubbling sound, too, even as Gustadolph snarls at the thought that such a beast-pen might hold men of Aesfrost, and then… and then…

All is fire, and agony. The shock of it rips all higher thought from Gustadolph’s being. He stumbles forward, his hair and cloak alight, and he tears at the gate with his hands, but they are not enough: not least because his fingers soon begin blackening, crumbling, falling away from him. The screams of his generals ring loud in his ears, louder even than the crackling of the flames. Loud as the Deathsknell.

Gustadolph Aesfrost has had many towns put to the torch. He has watched prisoners and traitors alike melt as they thrashed, thrown down into the molten metal of Ironstone. But ah, he never knew, he never dreamed…

…how much it hurts.

—

After the screaming stops, there’s not a sound. Aesfrost’s army stands stunned, frozen, gazing up at one middle-aged man with a walking stick in his hand… and at the men, women, and children of Wolffort, leaning out of every window and door, each with an arrow nocked at the ready.

“Well,” Benedict says, adjusting his glasses. “Who here thinks I ought to run Aesfrost?”

There is, after a moment, a show of hands.

—

Long into the future, Aesfrosti children would be taught that Archduke Benedict of the Wolffort Way defeated his predecessor with a spell, maybe even one of Archmage Grandante’s mighty techniques –- perhaps because doing it with ten coins’ worth of sticks and rope and a jug of oil seemed too prosaic. Either way, Benedict returned to Ironstone at the head of his new army. His first, and greatest, edict was simple: those that swore themselves to peace and cooperation were given a generous share of the salt in the Grand Norzelia Mines, and made sovereign houses of Aesfrost. Among these were the scattered demesnes of Glenbrook, or what little was left of it; the last of the wandering Roselle, having gravitated toward their deserted village after the fall of Whiteholm; and the Pirate Nation, led by a father and daughter with fiery hair. And Wolffort, of course: the mighty stronghold of Centre Aesfrost, guided by a new Lord Wolffort raised from the most loyal of Benedict’s assistants.

Along with the salt, Benedict gave each of his new houses a set of scales, a small handful of equally weighted coins, and instructions on how best to use them. In time, this system of governance came to be known as the Wolffort Way, and it persisted for many, many centuries in a largely peaceful, productive Norzelia.

(Some scholars write that the poor and the uncooperative were an initial challenge to this system, as were the remnants of Hyzante; many books in the Archives still attest to such, and say that the war raged on and on, even for a long time after. But Hyzante is naught but ashes today, of its own doing besides, and the poor and uncooperative alike do well enough to scrape by. So none are eager, these days, to return to the terrible era of Salt and Blood… or so it is written in Aesfrost, at least.)

After two consecutive four-year terms, Archduke Benedict was voted out in favor of a new leader, an ardent youth with a wide following among the people –- children of Aesfrost, I’m sure you can guess the one! Shortly thereafter, Benedict faded from the history of Norzelia, perhaps deliberately. To this day, one can view a note, hastily written on a scrap of looseleaf, among his relics enshrined in the Archives:

Chapter Text

Anna leans back against the rock of the cliff, idly flipping her knife in her hand. From up here, she can see the whole of the Centralian shore. If she squints, she can just make out the faint curve of the sand that shines all the way out where the sea meets the Great Norzelian River, weeks of travel away.

It’s nice, up here. It’s quiet. The others love this life they’ve built, but it doesn’t do much for Anna; it feels too much like inaction for her, like getting rusty. She spends most of her time ranging the cliffs and the shoreline alone, hunting and training, poking at spiny creatures in the tide pools.

Today, she’s been napping on and off, cradled gently by the rock, but it doesn’t matter. Not truly. She’d keep a real lookout, but after more than a decade and a half, she’s sure there’s nothing to look out for. Just the seabirds, and the occasional whale, and…

She freezes, eyes narrowing. Something's out there, not so far from the jetty that marks the start of Centralia proper, like a little black dot on the shore. It stands starkly out against the white sand, so it could be a bit of driftwood… but no. It looks like it’s moving slowly but steadily up the beach. She lifts the far-seeing glass Jerrom made her, and turns the dial to focus it, and…

She barely hears the sound of the lens shattering as it drops from her nerveless fingers. Instead she’s gone before she can even think, leaping down the treacherous cliff at speed.

Knew I could still do this, she thinks, riding the scree. She hops a boulder, tucking into a roll, and uses the momentum to shoot over the next gap. Her quick feet take her down, down, as much falling as running – but always, always controlled.

She grins to herself behind the safety of her scarf, even as she reaches the bottom and breaks into an all-out, gasping run for the village. Yeah. Still got it!

—

Erador’s at the tavern today –- it’s no surprise, given that he’s there most days if he’s not busy –- running a few of the Roselle kids through another mock battle with Hossabara, with a big mug of her good homemade rum close at hand. (They’ve got themselves a system, he and Hossa’: he pretends not to notice that she waters down his rum as long as the sun shines, and she pretends not to count how many full-strength mugs he kills after nightfall.)

“No, no. Ye can’t let ‘em get behind Geela. That’s bad tactics, they’ll take ‘er head clean off! But, see, I can let ‘em get behind me, if ya wanna go back an’ move me again…”

Hossabara resets the pieces, and the kids start arguing about where to move ‘em, as Erador takes a generous sip of his drink.

‘Nother fine day, he thinks, and means it. There’s not much he’s suited for, here in Centralia –- he’s been banned from the fishing boats on account of bein’ too heavy and loud, and his scarred, aching hands aren’t suited to dextrous work like weaving or sewing -– but Frederica always says he’s welcome just as he is, so he’s left to do as he pleases whenever there’s no call for two strong arms… and every night there’s a big plate of fried fish with his name on it.

He still misses Wolffort, sometimes: misses the messenger hawks with their sharp, bright eyes, misses the wind whistlin’ through the top of the tower… aye, and he misses a grave, an’ the quiet, too-serious man who used to care for it. Misses war, sometimes, too, truth be told. He still dresses for it, every day, the way he used to, but his full armor ain’t been touched (other than to maintain it, faithfully) in a number of years. Not since that bear came down out of the mountains, and went sniffin’ around the midden pile… and ho, how he’d put paid to that! He smiles to himself, nodding the smallest of nods toward the pelt on the wall, and rubs at the scar he’d earned.

Enough reminiscing. Centralia is his home, now, failure of an old solider or not -- and as such, he is content.

Yep. Another fine day. Maybe I’ll go ‘round to Flanagan’s later, get ‘im to help me teach the bigger kids to wrestle again?

Then he glances down at the board, and–-

“Oi, you can’t move Avlora twice! Only Anna goes twice. Hossa’, tell ‘em! Put ‘er back ‘an–-”

Just then, the door bursts open. It’s Anna, just as though he’d somehow summoned her… but she’s breathing hard, hanging off the doorframe, as if she’d run herself ragged to get there. “Erador!” she gasps.

Erador’s on his feet in an instant, hand on his sword, suddenly sober as a judge. If they’ve come. If Hyzante has–-

“It’s not that,” Anna says, still breathless with-– happiness? “Come on, Erador, just…”

She drags him by the hand, out the door and through the busy afternoon streets, with children scattering like birds before them.

“Hey, Anna. Where’re you…” Corentin starts, turning away from the magic lesson he’s been teaching. They leave him coughing in their dust, such that Erador feels a bit bad about it. Owe ‘im another drink, Erador thinks, and then they both dodge around Jens coming the other way with a ladder, and then they’re free, ploughing headlong across the sandy beach.

“Wait! What’s this about, even?”

“You’ll see. Run faster!”

You try runnin’ faster wearin’ pauldrons n’ brigandine in shifting sand, he thinks. But he doesn’t say it, because if anyone could do that, it would definitely be Anna. He just concentrates on his breathing, summoning a sprint the way he used to on the battlefield. They turn the curve of the promontory together, running flat out, and then:

There’s somebody there, not a hundred yards off, with grey hair and a leather surcoat dyed Aesfrosti purple. He’s got his head down, trudging over the sand, but just as Erador and Anna slide to a stop, he looks up at them–-

-–and the sun strikes his glasses.

“BENEDICT!” Erador bellows, lurching forward, stricken by joy. “Oi! Benedict! Over here!”

He waves, and Anna waves next to him, muttering father, father! under her breath, as though she’ll never stop saying it. And the man –- their dear old friend, their stupid, stubborn fool of a Benedict –- trots across the sand to meet them, grinning widely.

(If the first thing out of his mouth is “you’re still so loud, you big oaf,” then Erador will just have to forgive him, over and over again.)