Promise

At the strategy meeting that afternoon, Brochwel told Lord Garrett and the knights the meaning of the howl: Kirrglos knew the Flaxen Order's last sortie had gone through their land, and they were breaking off relations to avoid being pulled into the war. He presented this as the complete picture of all the warriors' investigations, because it was. That all the others had worried their would-be sources so they got nothing or received a fragment of what Aeden told Brochwel ... the brass didn't need to know.

Lord Garrett leaned over the chart table with his hands flat on the map, whose middle was dominated by an eternal storm. After a moment's pause, his beard dipped in a solemn nod. "It changes nothing."

Some of the knights looked puzzled, most like they expected this. Brochwel felt the world coming undone.

"We are here." Lord Garrett began tracing and stabbing landmarks with his finger. "Rhosaire meets us to the west. Kirrglos has a spindly arm of territory to the north, jutting between Tragaron and the scablands. That corridor is their only border with Rhosaire, and is rightfully ours, by centuries of ownership. We would still have it if Sir Ambrose hadn't gone soft at the end. Their real heartland, if nomads can have a heartland, are the forest and highlands to our north-east. Our other neighbors are peaceful right now."

He looked up from the map. "If Rhosaire wants to attack Kirrglos, they contend with us first or die trying to weather that accursed storm. If Kirrglos were to try and attack Rhosaire, they would have to go through us ... or we'll get to watch a bunch of stone slingers try sieging a proper castle."

That got a laugh from the assembled knights. They had seen the city Rhosaire had fortified on their side of the border. It had repelled the Flaxen Order twice, and while Brochwel graduated from trainee too late to participate, many of the knights in this room had.

"Gentlemen, we are the rock on which the empire will break. We are bleeding them white. That's why we started this thing: finish it before they can build any more strength."

Lord Garrett went on for some time, riling up the crowd. Brochwel stood by the wall, between two candles sputtering their last in elaborate twisted iron stands. Here they were, all but celebrating the demise of the treaty that had allowed Tragaron to focus its efforts on fighting the empire. What Sir Ambrose and Prince Kuzon worked so hard for didn't matter to these people, all of whom would have followed Ambrose into the great storm if he had pointed his sword that way just a few years ago. Brochwel watched, hearing a rising ringing in his ears as they debated who should get which portion. They were already carving up Rhosaire into duchies, already suggesting intolerable demands to foist on Kirrglos.

"Wait!"

Every face turned to look at Brochwel. A few glared, but most wore curious or even encouraging expressions. He was the only non-noble present, only here to relay information, a task already completed. But they had fought alongside Brochwel many times. Often they had ridden together in formation, flowing like a flock of birds. So much time spent in sync, feeling the same terrain under their horses hooves, turning and stopping together without signal, that had to count for something.

"Sorry for interrupting, it's just ..." Brochwel's throat was dry and he felt every gaze outranking him, but he had to. It was interrupt or watch a bunch of lords bicker over who got the best bunk on a sinking barque. "As of tomorrow, we haven't received an update from our spies and informants in 2 years. Maybe our network was found out and eradicated. Maybe they persist, but can't get messages through. Either way we are essentially blind to Rhosaire's current strength beyond their front lines."

Except for the dying hiss of the candles and a dry cough from the back of the crowd, silence greeted his words.

"Knowing more about their unit compositions, fortifications, and reserves would open up new opportunities. We should cooperate with the regular army, halt raids for a while and—"

"Thank you, Brochwel. Your concerns are duly noted," Lord Garrett said with a charming smile. "Reestablishing our intelligence capabilities is an important long term goal, but for now it cannot take resources from our efforts to wear down the enemy."

Lord Garrett walked over and put an arm over Brochwel's shoulder. "It's just math, Brochwel. We know we're killing about four Rhosarian troops for every man of the Order we lose. Slightly more, actually. However many men they can raise, it can't be limitless."

The strategy meeting went on a while longer, and Brochwel didn't find his voice again.

---

"Idiot. Stupid," Brochwel muttered as he attacked the potatoes. Why did he lead with the very first thing on his mind? That wasn't what Lord Garrett needed to hear. And in front of all those people! He needed to reach one person, just one.

The other men-at-arms on kitchen duty gave Brochwel a wide berth that evening. They churned out bowl after bowl of a chowder made with tilander, a nearly flavorless freshwater fish. Making, then serving 1076 bowls of soup, plus the ensuing cleanup took several hours. Plenty of time to think. Brochwel thought it wasn't many bowls. Not on the scale of an armies.

After dinner, Brochwel wandered the halls of the Flaxen Order, lost in his own head. Lord Garrett was a reasonable man. He would work towards the security and continuing stability of Tragaron, all Brochwel needed to do was point out how their current strategy worked against those noble goals. Just explain where they had gone wrong.

Brochwel thought he heard the jangling of a bag of ducats in the distance. Cargelhan.

He should have spoken up ten years ago.

But the sound continued. It wasn't coins clinking. Swords. Someone had crossed blades and it wasn't coming from the training ground. Brochwel oriented himself, then ran to the nearest storage room and grabbed a falchion that was busy gathering dust on its scabbard. There were a bunch of old swords in the compound, if you knew where to look. Quiet a few beds that never received a new occupant, too.

A shout echoing down the hall told Brochwel where to go. He rushed down the moonlit halls of a barracks now used for storage. The sword stayed sheathed for now, in case it was just another drunken squabble.

Torchlight around the next corner and the sounds of struggle had stopped. Brochwel slowed to a walk.

"Ah, Brochwel, impeccable timing," said Lord Garrett.

The leader of the Flaxen Order stood at the back of a bloody scene. Sir Haruld the Lightfoot and Sir Sawel the Bloodless lay dead on the ground. Danae the Arrow-Dodger and Bloody Ioan stood, their swords dripping over Macsen the Fair, who sat below a window sill, tied sheets piled near him. Macsen held his stomach, blood spreading through his clothes. All, including Brochwel, lacked their armor. Brochwel understood at once: Macsen had tried escaping through a disused building to be at Valerie's side, and took down two of the Order's best before being subdued.

"You know Brochwel, in your little stunt earlier, you told me to 'halt raids for a while'. That sounds dangerously close to a commoner giving his lord an order."

Macsen turned his head to look at Brochwel. He didn't speak. Just breathed heavy and ragged.

"... so I guess I need you to prove your loyalty, Brochwel. You're going to keep proving you're not a traitor like the rest of your stock. Go on, finish off this deserter."

Twenty years of loyalty. Brochwel had just turned down an offer to run off with someone. His entire life was here. That's probably what Lord Garrett counted on.

Brochwel drew the falchion and a dull glow lit the stone in his face.

"I'm taking Macsen. Leave."

Lord Garrett's mouth popped open, but he didn't gasp nor drop the torch. He sniffed and ordered Ioan and Danae: "Deal with him."

Danae tried to move first, but Ioan had been standing closer of the two. As Danae tried to move around, Brochwel sidestepped to keep Ioan between even though it brought himself closer to the wall.

Then Ioan brought his big two-hander up and rushed. His favorite move, it looked like a big, dumb charge from a big fellow. But the three of them had trained together for years now. Brochwel knew he had more control than it looked like, and Ioan knew he knew.

Brochwel let Ioan come to him, because Sir Sawel's body was in the way. Ioan realized and adjusted his stride to go over the corpse, then adjusted again to arrest his heel that began to slip on the blood. Brochwel slashed high, aimed at the face, and Ioan lifted his blade in time to parry. Meanwhile Brochwel's free hand swung up from below and threatened to grab the hilt of Ioan's sword. Ioan used his weight against their blades to shove Brochwel back and continued his charge past, running out of reach of Brochwel's sword.

But Brochwel had turned to Danae, who had approached for the follow-up. Danae waited in a balanced, neutral stance. Danae could always count on his speed, so Danae could always be counted on to commit. Brochwel baited him out with a short, swift slash aimed at Danae's neck. When he committed to blocking, Brochwel redirected down onto his sword arm. He tried to stab despite mangled arm, so Brochwel cut him down.

Brochwel scooped up Sir Sawel's sword and hurled it at Ioan, who was charging again. It made a terrible projectile, but flew true enough that Ioan had to deflect it. This time Brochwel stepped into the charge and gutted him.

Expecting Lord Garrett coming next, Brochwel swung around. But the lord and his torch were running down the hall, leaving Brochwel and Macsen bloody in the moonlight with four dead around them. Brochwel switched modes at once.

"Hold on, Macsen. I'll get you to a healer. Think of Valerie and hold on."

He tried to pick his friend up. Brochwel did his best to scoop Macsen onto his shoulder while his right hand clenched the falchion. He couldn't sheathe or drop it, the old magic that had replaced a third of his face with stone wouldn't let him. No one of rank around to give the order.

"Brochy." Macsen's voice was a whisper now. "You shouldn't have."

"Nonsense." Brochwel tried again to shift his friend onto his back. "We promised: you and me, together till the bitter end."

Macsen didn't answer. No breath passed his lips now. Brochwel shook him for a moment, to wake him, until certainty set in.