Laufa, the Peeping Tom

The Krastas College of War. November 15, 1434.

Laufa thought the College’s strategy hall was pointlessly tall. It easily carried their lector’s voice between its hundreds of benches.

The stone seats were all arranged around a massive sand table that had to be over ten feet long. It was framed in a polished pine, little golden and green painted blocks scattered across its miniature terrain.

A faint draft rustled her admittedly short bangs.

“Kres’thar’s death left his successor to combat the unrest of the Broadlands.” Lector Teldrus’s wooden pointer scraped across the sand. “The year was 982. Internal rivals pressured the new ruler. His army faced a fortified coalition of rebellious plains lords controlling the Uiasge River port. How should Lodran secure a decisive, overwhelming victory in this situation?”

Teldrus moved with the proper speed of an old man. He whisked his pointer at a noble girl. She blinked, turning her head in the hopes of finding another disciple behind her before realising she was the lone target of his interrogation.

She swallowed. “Well, in this case, Sir, a frontal assault—“

“Would be the perfect way to squander our troops.” The lector scanned the room, peering over his glasses. “Next.”

Another disciple shot up. “If we were to target their grain silos, we could starve them—“

“And forfeit the element of surprise?” Teldrus’s eyes settled on Laufa. “Next.”

Damn it. Laufa’s gaze swept over the map. Golden Lodran miniatures faced a swarm of green blocks dug in around a port, with carved wooden boats dotting the river.

She’d barely managed to memorise the geography of this world, much less its military history. The Broadlands were easily the least memorable subject, too. The details blurred together, all tallgrass and farmers. Agh, what’s memorable about that!?

I guess most of their army would be farmers, right? Maybe they didn’t want to fight…?

“Their army, it’s mostly conscripted farmers,” Laufa said, her voice small in the giant hall. “What about… a temporary truce? We could allow the civilians and conscripts to surrender. We could guarantee their safety.”

She trailed off into silence. Her knees pulled together. Was that stupid?

“A unique perspective, to be sure. But, one riddled with risks. What of spies among the refugees? Expended resources on prisoners? That’s not even mentioning its outward appearance.” Teldrus raised his pointer. “The Lodran Standard is one of absolute strength. To offer a truce at a time of such political unrest would be an invitation for rebellion.”

“Well said.” A smooth voice chipped in from a nearby bench. Mordhun.

He rose to his feet and strolled up to the sand table.

“If I may demonstrate, Lector Teldrus.” He swept a block of golden miniatures forward with the back of his hand. “A central unit. Standard heavy infantry. They engage the enemy’s main line here, and fix them into place.”

Mordhun snatched two more sets of Lodran miniatures and arranged them on the flanks. “Two wings of our elite infantry and bearers.” He inched them forwards. “They curve around both sides. One bearer flashes a barrier as the one behind them dissipates.”

The golden miniatures surrounded the green ones. “A flickering, rolling wall—” Mordhun flicked a green piece onto its side with a sharp clack. “Impenetrable and inescapable. The enemy is annihilated in a single, decisive engagement.”

The disciples could only stare in disbelief, first at the map, then at Lector Teldrus, waiting for his verdict.

“Commendable.” The lector adjusted his lenses. “You committed your strongest force to neutralise the enemy’s maneuverability. I see you’ve inherited the Warden’s wisdom.”

A wave of applause filled the hall. Laufa joined in, giving a half-hearted clap. I don’t see how his massacre is that much better than my idea, though…

“You’re too kind, Lector,” Mordhun said with a practised bow. “Your own wisdom undoubtedly outshines mine.” But his gaze coasted right past the lector, scanning the seats.

Laufa followed his eyes as they swept over the disciples, landing on a lone figure near the back. A young woman whose attention wasn’t on Mordhun at all, but on the sand table. While the other students fidgeted, she sat completely still. So still, it looked like she wasn’t even breathing.

Honestly, Laufa found her a little unnerving.

“And with that exemplary showing from Rustes,” Teldrus said. “Class is dismissed.”

Belts and pommels clinked as the disciples rose, erupting in chatter about the lecture and congratulations for Mordhun. The students immediately swamped him. One boy clapped him on the back as they all funnelled towards the hall’s massive doorway.

The thought of squeezing through that crowd made Laufa shudder. She rubbed her thumbs together on the bench, waiting for the room to empty out, then finally closed her eyes.

The room had emptied. At least, she’d thought so.

A pair of footsteps approached the sand table, and Laufa instinctively flattened against the shadowed wall behind her.

It was the young woman from earlier. She stalked towards the table, her long, blonde hair lagging behind her. It was the dry colour of a wasp’s nest and reached all the way down to her tailbone. She studied the pieces, unblinking. Her stare’s a little scary… But I guess she’s not all that bad-looking on second thought.

The girl’s hand hovered over a large group of Lodran miniatures before she plucked two pieces. She nudged them downstream, away from the fortified port, and placed them near a cluster of wooden boats… A wharf?

Then, she slid the boats upstream until they formed a line in front of the rebel’s port. No, it wasn’t a line. It’s a blockade.

Laufa’s gaze followed the river downstream. With the blockade, no boats would be able to pass. That meant no supplies, no reinforcements… and no escape. And she did it all while ignoring the main army. It wasn’t the chivalrous medieval combat Laufa was used to. More tedious supply chains, like something straight out of a logistics textbook. A smile curled the blonde’s lips. Scary.

Another pair of footsteps echoed from the entry hall, but a sudden clattering sound made Laufa snap her head back to the table. The young woman had swept her arm across the map and completely scattered the miniatures.

Mordhun threw the strategy hall door open with a bang.

“Adeus,” he said.

Adeus gave a curt nod. “Rustes.”

Mordhun rolled his eyes and strode towards the benches. Laufa’s breath hitched, the cold stone pressed against her back.

He grabbed a leather book from the bench, but froze right as he turned to leave.

His gaze clung to the centre of the room. “The sand table.”

“Ah, I must have brushed against it by accident.” Adeus gave a shallow bow. “My apologies.”

“Bowing doesn’t suit your station, Adeus,” he said. “Though I suppose a woman has her fancies.” His eyes flicked over the scattered pieces. “You do have a habit of meddling with subjects that don’t concern you.”

“Not at all, Rustes, I was simply admiring your handiwork.”

“Is that so?” Mordhun asked. “Did you find something interesting?”

Adeus slouched over the table. “Certainly. Your solution was quite…”

“Quite what?”

“Satisfactory.”

From her hiding spot, Laufa instantly felt the temperature in the hall plummet.

“…Satisfactory?” Mordhun took a slow step towards Adeus.

“A thoroughly orthodox, satisfactory solution.” Her fingers traced patterns in the sand. “Fitting for the son of the great Warden Rustes. The Marches have always favoured traditional approaches.”

“Those very approaches are why my father’s name is renowned across Lodran.” He tapped the table. “Not whispered about due to some unfortunate family squabble. Unless, you presume to have a superior solution?” He leaned over the table.

She picked up a miniature from the sand. “I wouldn’t dare suggest such a thing.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he said. “My approach was flawless.”

Adeus straightened, meeting his gaze. She rolled the small wooden piece between her fingers. Her mouth formed a smile, but her eyes seemed completely blank.

Mordhun scoffed. “You may stare all you want, Adeus. It changes nothing.” He straightened a stray miniature before turning away. “Ensure you clean up after your mess.”

His boots drummed against the stone as he left the hall.

Adeus returned the miniature to the table, pressing it into the sand with a soft hiss. She paused, her lips parting. Then, she slowly swivelled her head, landing right on Laufa’s hiding spot like some sort of animatronic owl.

Laufa swallowed, the air suddenly tasting like chalk dust.

“On the topic,” Adeus said. “It is rude to stare.”

Laufa jumped, her shoulder banging against the wall. “I wasn’t, How’d you—”

“You stand out too much, Laufa.” She flicked a hand dismissively.

Laufa winced at the name. Still haven’t gotten used to that…

“Sorry, Lady Adeus—“

“Eralia.”

“Sorry, Lady Eralia?” Laufa rubbed the sore spot on her shoulder.

“The ‘lady’ isn’t necessary. And there’s no need to apologise. Every disciple spies,” Eralia said. “You just happen to be considerably worse at it.”

Laufa stumbled forward. “But I wasn’t trying to spy!”

“Then what were you doing?”

“I was… Waiting for everyone to leave.” Laufa’s shoulders slumped.

Eralia gave a dry smile. “A poor strategy when you’re the most conspicuous disciple here.”

“What do you mean?”

“All the College’s eyes are on you. It’s not everyday a commoner outshines half the nobles in the entrance ceremony.” Eralia drew a clean line in the sand with her finger. “You’re different. That scares traditionalists like Mordhun.” She turned towards Laufa, taking a generous step forward.

“That’s… That’s not my fault! I didn’t ask for any of this.” Laufa stumbled back. “He’s a noble, anyways! Why should he be afraid of me?”

“Because nobles aren’t equipped to handle a commoner with a raw, unheard-of power.” Eralia stepped closer, until she was only a breath away. She towered over Laufa. “Then again, they aren’t equipped to handle a noble lady who refuses to be married off like a commodity, either.” Her gaze locked onto Laufa’s. “We have more in common than you think.”

Eralia turned and followed Mordhun through the entryway, leaving Laufa alone in the empty hall.

Laufa let out the breath she'd been holding and headed towards the table. Her hand hovered over the surface before she pressed down. The sand felt rough under her fingers, and a single miniature still stood, crooked.

She straightened it. Yeah, she’s still scary.