As the massive carriage bobbed around him, it occurred to Niklas that Uldred had likely never before ridden within any sort of vehicle. Despite its accommodating size—built specifically for her measurements—she maintained a constantly hunched posture and withdrawn demeanor, as though she sat trapped inside a tiny dungeon cell.

  Beside him was sat Finona, who had busied herself with a set of knitting needles gifted to her by the old seamstress for practice. She was hard at working making a proper mess of what was supposed to be a simple square of fabric.

  For the umpteenth time Niklas peeled back the thick velvet window curtain to peek out at the surrounding countryside… only to confirm that they were still in Petrice. There was, as of yet, nothing to see but the same, familiar overcast skies, plains of dry, matted grass, and bumpy wastelands formed of small, rocky hills spreading out to the horizon like a rippling tide. He sighed in disappointment, let the curtain fall shut and withdrew to his seat once again.

  A benefit of their journey was that they would be able to travel upon the Road of Benedict all the way down to where it met the Royal Highway. Niklas could observe the state of that precious, hard-won strip of land, along with the militiamen and women Petrice had stationed there to protect it.

  Winter is nigh... I had better have cabins with stoves built at waypoints along the Road before the ground and people both freeze. How many cabins we will need, though, I am not sure. I will have to pay attention to the geography of the length of Road that we preside over…

  Uldred let out a small laugh as she noticed her companion’s current demeanor, for it was obvious he had once again become enraptured with the contents of his own imagination. He had folded his arms and now stroked his bare chin, staring off into nothingness with a look of deep contemplation. His eyes darted back and forth as though he were reading script from a page only he could see.

  Now it was Uldred’s turn to peer past the curtain and out through the carriage window. She did not share the same distaste for the sparse Petrician landscape as her little husband, for after all, she had not yet seen any other place to compare it to. This gray and drab horizon, which stood almost lifelessly still but for the icy cold breeze rustling the grass, was all she had ever known. It remained the most immaculate vista she could enjoy.

  Suddenly her violet gaze sharpened as it fell upon a certain point, although her posture did not otherwise change.

  Far off in the distance—much farther than any normal person’s eyes could ever reach—she had spotted a large and bulbous form that shifted and writhed unnervingly.

  It was yet another monster, and this one was far deeper inside the territory than any had managed to wander within the past decade.

  There must have been another wave of monsters last night, Uldred guessed. One large enough that the garrison at the Old Fort was overwhelmed and a few slipped through the net.

  Part of her wished to immediately throw open the cabin doors, charge out to meet the massive beast, and bring her sword to bear upon it, as was her duty. Yet she only lay back in her seat and sighed, for she had already judged that such intervention was unnecessary. The way the creature—what little of it she could make out from this distance—lurched back and forth, as though prodded by stinging hornets, gave her the impression that the situation was already well in hand.

  Reudo, Sesto, Inigo, his brother ínigo, and Bracio had once been members of one of the finest military units of La Fortaleza, the nation whose territory stretched along the entirety of the eastern coast—and the only one to survive the former king’s wars of expansion. The company was all but annihilated during one of the last great battles against Boratan, wherein, ironically, it had been the Knights van der Leigh who dealt the finishing blow. These five stalwart survivors had come to Petrice to trade in their old pikes for new ones tipped with wavy blades, and although they claimed that they had come to “die with dignity,” they had yet to make good on that promise, thanks to their immaculate coordination in battle.

  If ‘La Pica Negra’ have been dispatched for cleanup this far East, then the last wave must have left them in a dire situation indeed, Uldred mused.

  She felt a deep regret that she could not remain in Petrice. However, being named guests of honor by the King himself meant that they must ignore any ailment but death itself to attend his audience, lest they risk insulting his royal person.

  Upon my return I must discover whatever has bolstered the monsters’ numbers posthaste! She committed silently.

  She watched quietly as, far in the distance, the hideous mass finally relented, balking and toppling into a heap beneath a thick fog that even her keen eyes could not pierce. She let out a slow breath and sat back again, allowing the curtain to fall across the window.

  “…Anything interesting?” Niklas asked. He had noticed the serious and intent expression on her face as she peered outside.

  But Uldred only closed her eyes and lay back against the plush cushions. Pulling the hood of her traveling cloak down over her eyes like a sleeping mask before folding her arms across her chest, she clearly broadcasted her intent to nap.

  “Nothing.”

  The air within the chamber had an icy chill—not due to its temperature, but rather to the collective mood of the gathered heads of noble families who stood around the large, circular wooden table at its center. Across the table’s surface lay an immaculate, incredibly detailed map of the kingdom and its current, swollen borders.

  Many dozens of small, intricately detailed wooden figurines had been set all across that map, giving it the impression that it was being used as a massive game-board for a chess match with a hundred pieces on either side.

  While the kingdom’s southern borders bore a few game-pieces here or there depicting a man wearing a thick turban cloth and wielding a scimitar, and the south-eastern shores held a handful of sailing vessels and the odd pirate figure, the vast majority of pieces lay spread across the North. A large belt along the top of the map was cluttered by a veritable horde of tiny wooden men and women wielding axes and spears, all dressed in crude leathers, animal skins and bone accessories. Their advance was held in check only by a handful of miniature castles that had not yet been tipped upon their sides in a clear indication of defeat.

  Each province of the kingdom had its own assigned castle piece, and around each were gathered many figurines depicting knights, horsemen, or soldiers in skullcaps and tabards. It was both striking and greatly alarming to see how few forces patrolled the vast lands between the capital and the Northern borders, especially when compared to the invading tide, with its figurines so densely clustered together any further additions would need to be stacked haphazardly on top.

  The room was dimly lit by only a handful of candles upon the walls, and was mostly silent save for a few hushed, worried murmurs. The far door then creaked open and a young servant slipped in through the gap, stopping momentarily to do his best to shut it soundlessly behind himself. He then squeezed through the gathered crowd until he reached one of the Lords standing beside the King, catching his attention with a silent beckon before whispering something urgently into his bent ear.

  Having received the servant’s news, the old man then sighed, reached out, and flicked over another castle on the Northwestern flank, brushing the fallen piece aside and placing three more Norsemen where it had previously stood.

  “...Shit,” swore the young King, gritting his teeth as he watched the man’s curt demonstration of yet another tragic loss. “It seems only a single castle and a fort managed to hold out.”

  “Even that much shows the fruits of your labors, Your Majesty,” the older man replied, nursing a headache between his brows. “Without your distribution of competent men and women to the border territories, I’d wager the entire Northern front would have fallen by now.”

  “Still, they are salients now—vulnerable to attack from all sides. We can’t even deliver fresh provisions to them in this state, so even if they aren’t currently under attack, they’re already as good as besieged.” another Lord said.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A solemn and contemplative silence fell across the room. Each man stared down at the map with a face full of concern, minds racing as they searched for any viable solutions to the situation.

  “Damnable holiday,” the King murmured, rising back to a straight posture in his chair. “Were we to muster our forces now we could reclaim our territory piecemeal before the enemy gets the chance to consolidate within the heartlands.”

  “That was part of their plan,” a third Lord said. “If we were to march just days preceding this most venerable holiday and its prestigious events, the rest of our enemies will take it as a sign of considerable weakness.”

  “...Right.”

  King Boratan rolled his eyes at that before he spoke.

  “Well, we can still send out the runners now. I shall demand from every capable House that a hundred men-at-arms at the very least march Northward not an hour after the Founding Day festival is concluded.”

  With his declaration the proceedings were then adjourned. The crowd began to funnel out through the doors and into the hallways beyond, leaving only the King and a handful of the noblest Lords behind in that gloomy space. King Boratan ran a hand through his hair and drew in a deep, exasperated breath.

  “What a mess,” he said as he slowly let it out in a tired exhale. “What a damnable mess the old man has left me to manage.”

  The remaining Lords exchanged a pointed, oft-practised look of shared catharsis, since when it came to the machinations of their late king, only their current liege had the right to speak aloud what each had so often thought.

  “Old fool,” he spat as he stared down at the invasion of the tribes of Northmen who now pressed into his relatively new, swollen and barely-manageable borders. “How in God’s name am I supposed to deal with all of this…?”

  The old Lord beside him clasped one comforting hand on his shoulder, coughing into his other to stifle a bark of poorly timed laughter.

  “All will be well, Your Highness. Numerous as this horde may be, they are but a collection of disparate barbarian tribes. Without an intelligent figurehead to gather around, it should take them weeks—perhaps months, even—to organize into a single force. We have plenty of time to enjoy the festivities before organizing our own response.”

  King Boratan eyed him, clearly unconvinced, but then sighed and shrugged in acceptance. “...You’re probably right, Duke Lionel.”

  As he spoke the man’s name, the young King startled with realization, then turned toward the Duke, his troubled and weary expression now replaced by a mischievous grin.

  “Oh, and speaking of the coming festivities…”

  The Duke’s expression fell at once, growing serious and dark with the change of subject.

  “...Ah, yes,” he said reluctantly. “I did mean to speak with you about that.”

  “You don’t seem very excited, Duke. I thought you’d be elated that one of your own was named the Guest of Honor!” King Boratan replied, his voice dripping with false affront that did not even try to conceal the obvious mockery beneath it.

  The Duke shot him a sharp glare as he forced out his reply through gritted teeth. “I claim none of them as ‘my own,’ least of all her!”

  Now fuming, the man then spun on his heel and marched toward the door. The other nobles parted quickly to allow him passage. Yet the Duke halted just before exiting the chamber, turning over his shoulder to speak once more.

  “The only thing I look forward to is finally staring into the eyes of that… that thing that ruined my daughter’s life. That “Countess” of Petrice.”

  Having claimed the last word on the matter, he departed. The Lords who watched him go turned back to their King and were surprised to see a look of amusement curling up the corners of his mouth.

  “Ever prone to dramatics, those Lionels…” he chuckled fondly.

  Anyone peering inside Niklas’ notebook after this first leg of their journal would find his usually fine handwriting was a mess, scribbled haphazardly across each page as the poor state of the Road under them meant he was constantly jostled by the many bumps and divots that the wheels encountered. They were now on the long bend that connected the Road of Benedict to the larger Royal Highway. Nobody lived in this area but a few isolated woodsmen and hunters, and it was not an area frequented by merchants or travellers, so it had long since fallen into disrepair. It was wholly unlike the stretch of Road that passed between Lengar and Otkron, where regular battles over ownership had kept the road flat and even under the constant marching of soldiers’ boots.

  Maybe I could build a town around here? Came a particularly bold and ambitious voice from the back of Niklas’ mind. The potential for logging is obvious and would be quite profitable, at least in the short-term, and I’d wager there are caches of other, yet-undiscovered resources in these hills to explore in future…

  An errant glance over the top of his leatherbound book revealed to Niklas that Uldred was still fast asleep. She had sunk even deeper into her seat and was now snoring in what would normally be an untenable position for a nap. Finona had nodded off as well, though she merely rested her head back on her cushioned seat in silent slumber.

  Niklas snorted with unexpected amusement. She, after all, had been the massive and indomitable presence whose mere glance had once brought a tremble to his bones, unsettling his heart as she leered down at him through her stoic silver mask. Now her giant frame was curled up like a pillbug and her mask was gone, revealing the way her mouth hung open as she snored, a bit of drool leaking down from its corner.

  I love this silly woman…

  He did not fully comprehend this intrusive thought until it had already come and gone, but when he did his face immediately turned an alarming shade of beet red.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid…” Niklas muttered, leaning deeper into his seat as he held his notebook aloft like a shield, as if its leather cover could hide him from the world itself.

  Suddenly, then, the carriage jolted violently as it was brought to an abrupt halt. Niklas’ book and pen flew from his hands, while Uldred’s head cracked painfully against the wooden wall, wrenching her from sleep’s grasp. Somehow, Finona remained unconscious, her only head lolling forward from their forceful stop before dropping back onto the cushion again.

  “Huh—wha…?” Finona stammered, blinking in confusion as she finally returned to awareness.

  Niklas reached back and slid open a small panel in the wall, revealing a grated window beyond which sat the carriage drivers.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded. “Why have we stopped?”

  He could not see Nayantara, as she was seated directly behind him on the other side of the carriage wall, so he directed his question to Thomas, who occupied the other end of the bench.

  Thomas glanced down at him through the slot, wearing his usual blasé grin.

  “My apologies, my Lord,” he replied cheerfully. “I believe that we are surrounded.”

  Niklas hastily pulled back the window curtain and peered out through the glass.

  Indeed, emerging from the treeline that ran along the road—and stretching as far forward as the window allowed them to see—was a mob of unfriendly-looking sorts clad in animal skins and wielding axes or spears paired with round wooden shields.

  They were rough and ornery-looking folk, each with weathered skin marked by many scars. The men had thick and well-muscled bodies and sported long, full beards that had been twisted into braids. The women were lean and wiry, and had shorn their scalps short in a hairstyle that would have appalled any proper Noble who laid eyes on them.

  One and all this force encroached steadily upon the carriage, leering up at Niklas through the window, and as they approached many of them let out animalistic groans of excitement or chuckled to themselves in malicious anticipation.

  “Ah. I suppose that we are.” Niklas replied, before shutting the slot once more.

  “Uldred..?” Niklas asked, as he turned back to face her. But the Countess was already clambering up from her seat.

  “I’ll get it.” She sighed wearily before her face was split by an enormous yawn. It was as though she had just been asked to partake in some dull, oft-practiced chore, rather than defending their lives from immediate danger.

  The steady advance of the Norsemen was brought to a sudden halt as the door of that massive carriage flew open upon its hinges, its portal revealing an impenetrably dark interior like the gaping mouth of a giant beast. Out from it flowed a thick and murderous aura, one which caused the attackers’ skin to prickle and their hair to stand on end as their instincts begged them all to flee for their lives.

  As abruptly as it had begun, their ambush had been flipped entirely on its head.