—Duke Iselbaum’s war camp—

  It is late and it is cold. Fall has yet to arrive, but eager leaves already turn crimson in places. Although it is dark and the moon has long since risen, the camp is not quiet.

  The war council’s tent sits at the top of a small hill, a sea of canvas, fire and steel deployed all around them, hundreds of men whose sole purpose at this moment is to protect the generals convening at the top of the hill.

  The tent itself is the largest in the whole camp, especially now that Duke Iselbaum’s tent was taken down and carried off behind his carriage when he left on urgent business just a few hours ago. It is as though fate itself had saved him.

  Inside the tent, beyond heavy brocade curtains embroidered with gold and silver by the most skillful of craftsmen, beyond ornate pitchers of wine and beyond delicacies of the most exquisite taste, twenty men all argue.

  Each of them is wrapped in more steel and finer cloth than the next, and each spouts more profanities than the other:

  “How can we allow that godless bastard to humiliate us like this? We cannot keep retreating! We must attack him and his scoundrels right now!”

  “Who allowed this fool into our council? If you are so challenged by basic military strategy that you would send your own men to slaughter, then fuck off on your own and try to win the war your way!”

  “Cunt!”

  “Gigolo!”

  “Damn right! I’m a scholar too, and your wife’s muff is an open book!”

  “I’ll gut you!”

  “ENOUGH! You are not helping our situation! Nitwits! The whoreson has thus far outsmarted each and every one of us! We must take advantage of our defensive stance and lure him into a-! Will somebody shut up those bastards outside?!”

  —Count Treblin’s war camp, a few hours before—

  A black steed comes walking, an unremarkable beast by any means. Not tall as a house, nor fast as lightning, yet its head stood tall and proud. There was certainty in each step, confidence and a hint of servitude. Servitude to its master riding above.

  The master was himself an ordinary looking man. Black hair, a clean shave and brown eyes. Though he was unmistakably a noble, his armor did not shine, since he hid it under a large black cloak. His head too was raised high, same as his horse’s.

  “Goodmen! Brothers in arms!”

  From this rather ordinary man came a booming voice, filled with conviction, rage and love.

  “I have led you from the front in every battle of this terribly long campaign! I have shown you the courage that I see in each and every one of you! When we were on the backfoot in the spring! And when we’ve got them on the run! When the leaves are beginning to turn crimson! But I promise you, brothers! This war shall be over before these crimson leaves fall!”

  The men cheer for him. A choir of hundreds of men, ragged and tired of war and its cruel ways, but still trusting in the man on the black horse.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Your commanders have briefed you! You have sharpened your blades! You have donned your armor! You shall become legend! And live forevermore!”

  —Back to the present—

  A soldier suddenly comes bursting into the tent. Blood and soot obscure his colors and paint his helmet. He leans on his sword and heralds between laboured breaths:

  “The Count has come! …It’s …hell.”

  Suddenly, any attempt at further conversation is drowned out by a hundred horseshoes, clapping against the soft earth and trampling in circles around the tent.

  First, they see the fire spreading to the roof of their tent, then it engulfs even the thick brocade lining the interior of the walls. The panic has made its way inside this tent as well. So called civilised men throw chairs and elbows into one another so that they may be the first to exit.

  The ‘gigolo’ is the first to make it to the tent’s flaps. The count himself, atop his black steed, beheads him.

  With this, the count is satisfied. He has turned his blade slick with blood and fat and felt a small taste of revenge when his hand met resistance in its perfect path. It would be simply cruel to play with them any further, and he is no cruel man.

  With one hand he gestures strange symbols and sings in tongues unheard.

  A great wind he has summoned.

  The flames cheer for his magic, their greed mirroring that of their noble victims.

  The tent collapses. All the generals are trapped in the inferno. None will survive.

  ‘It is a shame though… I do not see the Duke’s colors… *scoff* And I am called a bastard?’ The Count of Treblin thinks to himself, sour and disappointed.

  Still, a smirk soon rises onto his face as he thinks of the absolute meltdown that Duke Iselbaum will have when he learns of the fate of his army.

  “Enough! We have slain their war council! Everyone! Retreat!”

  Another spell carries his voice far and wide, fortifying his men and striking fear in his enemies. Great cheers drown out the screaming of the damned and dying.

  The night raid has ended. The Iselbaum Duchy’s forces have been decimated. Those left alive have no will to carry the banners of dead men on their shoulders.

  All that is left is to catch up to the Duke himself, the man who started this war, and parlay.

  —Duke Iselbaum’s carriage—

  As the coachman whips the horses to have them run faster and faster, kicking up dust and rocks in their wake, the Duke sips wine in the back. He tries to seem unbothered, despite not having any servants around to see him.

  The wheel of the carriage hits a rock and the whole thing jolts upward. The lip of his glass clatters against his teeth and wine stains his expensive clothes. He wore white today as well, same as always. Despite being at war, he had managed to keep his clothes mostly clean.

  He raises his hand above his head and throws the wine glass at the floor, taking satisfaction in seeing the work of a skilled craftsman, a work which few people may ever get to see the like of, shatter into a thousand pieces.

  ‘I’ll have that dirty bastard killed. I’ll revel at the sight of his flowing blood. How could he? How could a mere Count dare? Not only did he not yield to me out of respect, but he even started a war over it? Over a mere wench?’

  His hands tremble with rage. Suddenly, it feels ridiculous to him. He spits on the luxurious carpet. It was already ruined anyway.

  ‘And he even dares to start winning? After only defending for so long? The godless bastard even had some lowly mercenaries deal with my swordsmanship teacher! The Great Swordmaster Kriegstaffe! They say he was squashed under a boulder before even unsheathing his blade?’

  A touch of melancholy and regret wash over his face and disappear as quickly as they came.

  ‘He has only had victories because of his ungodly luck! He must have made a deal with dark forces! …Fallen gods or underworld rulers… How else can a man have so much luck? …Who else could make me feel so …abandoned by fate?

  Rat bastard. A rat bastard he is! He has raided my supply caravans! He has attacked my scouts only to kill the officers and retreat! He has more than once had his men scream at my camp at all hours of the night so that I could not even sleep! And he has gotten so many good men killed over a single fucking woman? Against such an unchivalrous man… I must become unchivalrous myself.’

  So many strong emotions seem to have drained him of energy. He leans against the window and sleeps like a baby. He will come up with a cunning plan some other time.

  A/N: Finally caught up to the present! I am moving my uploads to this site because wattpad is hell and here there seems to be a lot less horny posting.

  Hope you enjoy future chapters too! Thanks for reading :)