Hargraf kept his face perfectly smooth as commander Mirre recounted her events of the battle, resisting the urge to grimace when the Queen leaned forward in interest. The King's bride could not be called subtle, but if this war had proven one thing, it was that she had an eye for battle.
Building the army that facilitated his alliance with the Isolationists should have ended her as a political entity. A foreign Queen without family or wealth, spending their treasury to build an army staffed with her own people?
It would have been war had the King not stood behind her, and even so the expense would have seen half the nobility flock to Redwater in protest. But then the Empire had invaded, and suddenly she didn't look foolish at all.
She looked prepared, and in war people looked to those who were confident. Those who were winning.
Damn the Empire. Damn them to all the Hells.
He'd been so close. King Edward had been old, his son a disinterested mage, no other siblings to fight for the throne. Becoming regent was doable in as little as a year, and even after the then Prince had changed, things had been manageable.
No more regency, that plan was abandoned when the Prince showed some interest in doing his duty, but his alliance with the Isolationists would see the Loyalists outnumbered. His lands could have been grown, privileges acquired, his personal army expanded. Power in all the forms that mattered, funded by controlling trade with the Empire.
An Empire that now seemed Hells-bent on making his life as difficult as possible.
Hargraf made a polite noise as the Queen commended Mirre on her leadership, something which the commander took with a stilted nod, and the King appeared only half there. Eyes unfocused, expression mute, standing as if he expected to fight at any moment.
Whatever had happened with the Prince had changed the boy a great deal indeed. And now, well… Now, few could stop talking about how the King had fought an Archmage. How he had rode from battle to battle on his demonic mount and slain hundreds of Imperial soldiers. Carved through enemy mages, led his Royal Guard into battle with mace in hand.
But beyond all there was power. His mages whispered of it, scheming ways to attend the King's Academy. To learn from his lessons, from his might, and it was a might that seemed to grow with every battle.
One moment there was nothing. Just a young King slowly learning to rule. Then the light would catch, and Hargraf would swear the kid's eyes would shift. Go on forever until they were as deep as the sky, an endless expanse of nothing. It would be gone after a moment, dismissed as nothing but the mind fooling itself.
Then power, enough power even he, one who held no talent for magic, could feel it press against his skin. Like standing in humid air, clinging and clawing for his attention. He was a good politician, Hargraf could say that without any hint of arrogance, and even he struggled to keep calm when the very air seemed to press on his mind.
The King grew in power month after month, which was not how mages usually operated. They studied, usually for years, and became more able to employ magic. That much he understood. But mages were held back by their flesh and bones, by the fact a suitably well-trained and determined soul could smash aside their shields and cave in their brains.
Now there were reports of the King's defenses growing not just stronger, but more varied. Spatial, even, which one of his more talented mages nearly defected over.
Two, maybe three years. That's how long he estimated it would take for the King to consolidate all magical power within Redwater. With that and the Queen's army the Loyalists would grow, Lords would defect, Barons would plot. Ten years before the King and his foreign Queen held complete power in Mirrania.
The invasion threw that prediction out the window, of course, but the facts hadn't changed. Soema was less committed now that the boy had given her power, and he would admit that it was a brilliant move most likely suggested by his succubus, but at least the Duchess was still willing to maintain their alliance.
Soema had not grown more fond of foreigners with the Imperial invasion.
The Isolationists did have a point. For decades they had preached against Imperial involvement, and for decades they had been ignored. Now the wolves were at the gate, or more accurately had burnt the entire gatehouse to ashes, and Soema didn't even have the grace to act smug.
General Pator spoke once commander Mirre had finished her tale, and Hargraf suppressed a scowl. He wasn't one to hate foreigners for being born in a different land, but for one to rise so high? To have command over their largest army, one that their taxes paid for? It was an insult, and the King hadn't even meant it as one.
Bit by bit they were being changed, subsumed by outsiders and invaders, and the King didn't seem to care. And yes, perhaps change was inevitable. Perhaps it was sheer luck that they managed to retain their independence for so many centuries. But to help the Empire along?
The King was young, and that was the only reason he himself hadn't turned to more violent methods to show his displeasure. There was hope that the kid could be guided. Well, there had been hope. Now there wasn't, not after this battle, and if he stepped out of line he had very little doubt the noose was all he would get.
Would his Barons even attempt to avenge him? In peacetime the answer would be simple. In war? Facing a professional, hardened army while they had nothing but levies and a few thousand household guards?
His wife had always been pragmatic, his children would obey their mother. So now the only way out was through, and his only play was to try and recapture as much power as he could before the war was over.
Pator cleared his throat, and Hargraf paid proper attention as the man's accented voice filled the tent. "The western front was quiet for a while. It joined the battle late, after one of the Legions pushed the southern line back and were forced to join them. Commander Itmof gained overall command after commander Poosic fell to enemy action. A long-ranged, modified arrow. It is a capability for targeted elimination we have not accounted for.
Commander Itmof was granted the contingent of undead automatons to serve as shock-troops, something which he employed to successfully counter a group of water elementals. Their numbers were reduced to near zero by a firestorm soon afterwards."
Hargraf nodded to show he was listening, mind going to different places. Foreign and too powerful, but the man was professional. Had clearly been fighting for a long time before his home was ravaged by the undead. It made him think of another professional army, one much smaller and more concentrated.
The Royal Guards.
A third of them were dead now. The King had taken them to every hard engagement in the battle, had sent them to fill gaps in the line and fight the best the Imperial Legions had to offer. They'd done well, and they'd suffered for it.
But that was not unusual, and he was not the sort of man to flinch at death. What was much more pressing was the fact his spies inside of it had been disproportionately targeted. Good spies, too. Expensive spies. Good fighters recruited by him years and years ago, owing him more than just distant loyalty, and joining the Royal Guards when their recruiters visited his home.
They were not easy to replace, and though it would take time for him to properly assess the damage, of the five he had, one remained. One who was currently dying on a field, wounded beyond even his best healer's attempt to save her.
Vess. He didn't know how, didn't know when, but she'd found out. Hadn't told the King, those Royal Guards would have been hanged long before now, and instead had sent them to die fighting the enemy. How perfectly efficient.
The recounting came to an end soon after. Not much variation, not once the message of 'swords clashing and shields splintering' was retold in a few different ways. Notes were made by one of those scribes that seemed to follow the King and Queen everywhere, faithfully writing down all the comments and suggestions from the general, and the meeting didn't even last half an hour.
Silence fell, and still the King wasn't really paying attention. Just looking in the middle distance, which for a regular soldier would be perfectly acceptable. But the King had to impress the people, and right now he looked like any kid barely old enough to grow a beard.
Then the King focused on him, and Hargraf suppressed a shudder. Kept his posture and expression perfectly normal, which in this case meant displaying a vague sense of boredom and impatience.
The gaze turned away a moment later, losing none of its oddly distant intensity. "General Pator, how many weeks of supply do we have remaining?"
"Assuming that we are including Duke Hargraf's provisions, three weeks. Two if we push hard, four if we ration. I would strongly recommend against rationing. It weakens the soldiers physically, but worse, it damages morale. Taxing the local population might become necessary."
Hargraf watched as the King paused, turning fully to the general. "Magic might alleviate the problem before that becomes necessary. If the people turn against us during the invasion, the war is over."
"Magic might," the Queen replied, glancing at the King before nodding to the general. "Prepare a list of the best settlements to take supplies from. Use only Mirranian soldiers."
The King hummed. "Voluntary tribute only, if it comes to that. It becomes easy to justify all manners of immoral actions during war, but I will not have us stealing from the very people we seek to protect."
General Pator nodded after a second's hesitation, but if the King noticed he said nothing. It signaled the end of the meeting, Hargraf dragging out his own departure as long as he could. The boy's strength, in a way, was reassuring. Annoying when wielded against the Moderates, but at the very least the Queen hadn't assumed all power.
That same Queen went after city watch commander Mirre, which Hargraf only caught because he'd been stalling. His instincts, as usually, paid off. And then they promptly backfired, a pair of Royal Guards blocking his exit.
Hargraf turned, finding the King standing behind him. The boy walked with a quiet step. Hargraf hadn't noticed that before. "Walk with me."
"Of course, your Grace," Hargraf replied. The Royal Guards followed, linking up with more and more as they walked. The King said nothing, Hargraf wasn't going to break the silence, and so instead he noted how much of a diverse following the boy was collecting. Sharp-eyed mages, watching both him and their surroundings like paranoid hounds. Foreign soldiers carved from stone, Life Enhancement flowing through their veins. Demons and elementals, too, flying in the air. And yet the King ignored it all. Hargraf cleared his throat after a few minutes. "I must commend you on your healing abilities, your Grace. Many soldiers owe you their lives."
The boy shrugged lightly. "It was the right thing to do. Have you met Xathar, Duke Hargraf?"
Hargraf started shaking his head when the demon appeared, stepping out of a portal and moving towards the King. The horse-demons neck was presented for scratching, something the boy did with a faint smile on his face.
The demon turned to Hargraf himself once that was done, eyes narrowing as it spoke. "This one smells of insults. Insults and sickly gold."
Keeping his face even really was one of the best skills his mother had taught him. The King didn't laugh, the demon turning back to its summoner and walking closer. It nudged him again, demanding more attention as the King stared off in the middle distance.
Hargraf cleared his throat after another long few seconds. "How can I be of service, your Grace?"
"Ah, yes," the boy replied, hands going inside his pocket. A note was extracted, written in charcoal and coated in wax. "Please read this and tell me what you think."
The Duke took the note as he suppressed a moment of hesitation. It was exactly three sentences long, and Hargraf reread it three times just to be sure. "I don't understand."
"Neither did Vess. I will bring it to everyone else's attention tonight, but I wanted your opinion first. Your unbiased opinion."
Hargraf felt danger, then. Felt that the soldiers—which had stopped some distance away—suddenly looked much more threatening. The boy was unstable, that was easy to see, and being singled out to give advice over a note was never a good sign.
"They wish to ensure the Kingdom prospers once they have conquered it," Hargraf replied. "Their arrogance is plain to see."
The King hummed. "See, that's what I thought. But this whole invasion is beneath the Archmage, in truth, and it was him that gave the order. The order to give me every courtesy to surrender, to not take my life under any circumstance. It was spread far and wide, even their lower officers being sternly instructed that the Mirranian King is to be taken prisoner, not killed. And this is after their failed assassination attempt, one that only spared my life by a small margin. So what changed?"
You did. You fought him and gave him a bloody nose, quite literally from what I heard.
"I'm not sure, your Grace. Perhaps it really is as simple as the Archmage wishing to install you as a regional ruler, slowly stripping away duties and rights over generations. They have done so before, and it is remarkably effective at assimilating a population into their broader culture."
"Perhaps," the King murmured, turning away. "Thank you, Duke Hargraf. Excuse me, I have to ensure the wagons do not shred all that is contained within them when their spatial runes are destabilized. It will add significantly to their maintenance, so it is a temporary solution. In fact, if I…"
The King kept talking to himself as he walked away, and as his guards went with him Hargraf breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He only allowed himself a moment of it, however, and within half an hour he was striding into his very own war tent.
Barons straightened, talented Lords bowed, and Hargraf relaxed more fully as the proper niceties were observed. No foreign salutes, no barking peasants commanding hundreds. No, proper nobility with proper upbringings, leading their own forces marshaled from their own lands.
The Queen could scoff all she wished, it brought stability. Ensured no Baron could seize power, for their Lords would rise up against them. It ensured no Duke could go mad, for their Barons would intervene before it drew Royal scrutiny.
He would have to admit the Queen's army knew discipline, however. But there were ways to incorporate that without bowing to outsiders, no matter how essential to the war.
Hargraf cleared his throat, the dozen men and women giving him their full attention. "I shall get right to it. All forces will be awoken and inspected at sunup, no drunkenness shall be allowed unless explicitly permitted and all supplies will be inspected and tallied daily. We are late to this war, my Lords and Ladies, but we will show that Mirranian soldiers can hold their own. I expect every soldier to perform two hours of martial practice overseen by household guards, daily if time allows."
"I advise to supply levy forces with replacement household guard weaponry," Lord Immos said, tone soft but deep. "There are too many wielding pitchforks and hunting bows, not proper tools of war."
Hargraf grunted. "Agreed. Ensure each of your levies are equipped to the best of your ability. Subtract the cost from their wages, if needed, but arm them. I have seen the Imperial Legions fight. Halfhearted measures will bring nothing but embarrassment."
The nobles bowed again, Hargraf turning sharply and exiting the tent. He could hear Immos continue to speak, so that was handled. One of his most talented fighters, and a Knight. Even Barons listened when the man spoke.
He made his way towards a separate section of his camp, household guards saluting as he passed. The area was well guarded, as ordered, and strategically placed tents ensured there was a private sparring area at its center.
Hargraf slowed as he came to it, three dozen men and women sitting around the ring. Two were inside, a bear of a man and a younger, much more lean, woman. The man groaned as the woman's leg snapped out in a kick, bone breaking. The bear toppled, a sparring sword placed at his throat moments after he hit the ground.
Hargraf clapped, feeling a genuine smile stretch over his face. The woman turned, bowing deeply with a huge grin on her own face. Her hair fell over her eyes, something that she rather liked, and Hargraf rolled his eyes. "Well done, Mitzi."
"Thank you, father." Mitzi left the ring as one of his best healers started working on the wounded man, stopping next to him. Her face was flushed, meaning this was far from her first fight. Was that another scar on her shoulder? "How did the meeting go?"
He smiled at his adopted daughter, suppressing a small flinch. "Well enough. How are the men?"
"And women," she chided, grinning. "A lack of bulging muscles never stopped me from beating them before, father, and it won't ever now. Me and the others are ready for whatever you need."
The others. Three dozen Life Enhancement soldiers, the product of a rather expensive project. Time to see if it had been worth it. Hargraf turned, tone lowering. "I shall be frank, child. The King and Queen are closing ranks, favoring Loyalists and foreign soldiers. I need to have his ear, both now and after the war. That can only happen after we've proven to be indispensable, and so far bad luck ensured our talents could not shine."
"Whatever you need, father."
He smiled at her. "You are a gift of endless bounty, child. Take your soldiers and offer your services to the Queen. Watch, learn, do what you can to make yourself useful. I will ensure that our forces earn victory, and together we can force the King to listen to us."
Mitzi nodded, face growing serious. "I won't let you down, father."
"I know, little dagger. I know."