Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 50–Change of Command

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Viperious pulled the tent flap open and glanced out into the night. The cold air carried the acrid smell of smoke from the burning watchfires.

Where was that mercenary commander? I sent for him over an hour ago.

He let the heavy canvas fall back into place and turned, his boots sinking into the mud-stained rugs covering the tent floor.

Brecc squatted on an overturned barrel, staring at the ground, fingers fidgeting with a frayed piece of rope. The Councilman pursed his lips as he studied the nobleman. The man was useless in military matters, but his family name still carried weight in Bretagne. Without Brecc as the Council’s puppet, their claim to Bretagne would have no legitimacy.

Viperious glanced at the maps scattered across the makeshift table, painfully aware of how the attack dragged on. Dathon had promised a steady stream of reinforcements from Wolfbern. Each day delayed meant another day for Landros’s defenders.

Suddenly, the tent flap opened, and Quorous entered, bringing the stench of blood and iron with him. “You sent for me?”

No bow, no title of respect. Viperious masked his frustration behind a thin veneer of authority. “Yes,” he replied, pointing to a seat. “Time for a council of war.”

The mercenary remained standing; thumbs hooked casually in his belt. “What’s there to discuss? They are reeling and will collapse tomorrow.”

Viperious paced to the table, gathering several sheets of parchment, the candlelight catching the beads of sweat on his brow. “We have lost over a third of our conscripts, and the city is in ruins. If this continues, we will have neither a city to rule over nor the manpower to hold it.” He tapped the missive from Dathon that had arrived that morning—full of vague promises but no definite timetable for reinforcements.

Quorous crossed his arms and smirked, leaning against the tent’s center pole. “What do you propose to do then?”

We need this city intact enough to rule the rest of Bretagne. “Send another parlay under a flag of truce and offer generous terms.” Viperious’s voice lowered, his fingers drumming against the table.

“And when they reject that offer?” Quorous’s eyes glittered in the lamplight.

Viperious stared at the odious toad, aware that the mercenary understood all too well how desperate their position was becoming. “No quarter then,” he snapped, the words bitter on his tongue.

The mercenary commander’s lips curled into a slow smile. “According to our contract, no quarter means my men get full spoils of war.”

Viperious waved a hand dismissively, thoroughly looting the city would complicate the Council’s plans. “Yes, yes, whatever. I will draft the parlay’s terms and send it to you.”

“Send it to my second, Soroykin,” Quorous said with a theatrical wave. “He will ensure it gets delivered by sunrise.” The man turned on his heel and left, the tent flap closing behind him.

“I will make that man pay,” Viperious growled, the vein in his temple pulsing. He faced Brecc, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. “Fetch me my parchment and ink.”

Brecc jerked and looked bleary-eyed at him, like a man waking from a stupor.

Clenching his fists, Viperious drew a deep breath. The Council needed this fool, at least until they consolidated power. “Send an aide to fetch it from my saddlebags,” he amended, his voice tight.

“Where are the aides?” Brecc asked, blinking slowly.

“Just get out,” Viperious shouted, his composure finally cracking. As Brecc shuffled out, Viperious sank onto a stool, his shoulders sagging for a moment before he straightened them again. The Council’s ambitions pressed upon him. Landros must fall, and soon—or all would be lost.

* * *

Getting to his feet awkwardly, Brecc stumbled out of the tent, past the guard and into the dark camp. A chill wind carried the distant sounds of the besieged city—occasional shouts and the crackle of fires. Where was the stockade? For that matter, where was his aide? He’d not seen the man since dawn, but that was not a surprise – he had nothing for the man to do anyway.

A dark figure slid by as he stumbled past a sentry fire, the orange glow briefly illuminating a familiar silhouette.

Was that Quorous?

It seemed to be him. The thought disappeared like smoke as he found the stockade, the horses shifting restlessly in the night air.

It didn’t take him long to locate Viperious’ mount, with its garish trappings—gold-threaded saddle blanket and Council insignia prominently displayed. He retrieved the necessary items from a saddle bag, though the leather was cold and stiff under his fingers, and weaved his way back through the maze of tents. Strangely, though, the guard usually in front of his tent was not there. Something felt wrong. He hesitated, then slipped inside.

Viperious sat on a barrel, wrapped in a blanket, slumped over. The single oil lamp cast long shadows across the tent.

How could the man have fallen asleep just since he left? There was much to do.

He set the quill and ink on the table, the items making a soft clatter in the silence.

He cleared his throat, waited, then did it again. With his index finger, he pushed on the Councilman, who toppled onto the floor, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. From a thin line on his throat down his front, he was painted crimson with blood.

Brecc stumbled backward, his heart hammering against his ribs. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing.

Dead. The Councilman was dead.

Fear gripped him momentarily—then dissolved into something unexpected. For weeks he had endured Viperious’s contempt, while the Council exploited his lineage to legitimize their machinations. Now, with Viperious gone…

The tent flap behind him moved. He jerked around to find Soroykin looking at him with mild annoyance. “I was sent to pick up a message.” His eyes drifted toward Viperious and widened. “Did you—”

“No, I most certainly did not,” Brecc said, finding his voice steadier than expected. “I stepped out for a moment, and when I returned, he was like this.”

“Dead.” Soroykin stood over Viperious, his expression unreadable save for the slight upward curl of his lip. He nudged the corpse with his boot, then flicked his calculating gaze back to Brecc. “Nicely done.” He looked up at Brecc. “What are your orders?”

Brecc blinked. Without Viperious, he could truly lead. The Council’s puppet had cut his strings. What had the man proposed? “Ah, yes, terms of the parlay.” He grabbed the quill and dipped it into the ink, the nib scratching against parchment with newfound purpose.

Terms of surrender: All honors, no pillaging, and all titles, ranks, and privileges will be respected, provided I am recognized as King of Bretagne and Cazidor.

King Brecc of Bretagne and Cazidor

He dripped candle wax next to the signature, the hot wax burning his fingertips slightly, and pressed his signet ring into it.

There, that should do it.

The ring—his family crest that had been nothing but a symbol of empty authority until now—suddenly meant something. With a flourish, he handed the document over to Soroykin. “Have this delivered immediately.”

Soroykin examined the document, his eyes lingering on the signature and seal. A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth—not respect, but acknowledgment of the game being played. “As you command,” he said with a cursory bow that held just enough deference to acknowledge Brecc’s new position. “The men will follow whoever pays their wages and honors their… arrangements,” he added before departing.

Brecc stared at the tent flap as it fell back into place. He was now in charge of his destiny, no longer a dancing to the Council’s tune. Tomorrow would determine who would rule Bretagne, and for the first time, he had real power to shape that outcome. A smile crept over him, but then he glanced down at the deathly white corpse laying in a huge puddle of blood, Viperious’s eyes still open in frozen surprise.

Nausea washed over him as he darted out of the tent, gulping the cold night air.

Honestly, where was that aide? Someone needs to clean up this mess.

 As he steadied himself against a tent pole, a new thought occurred: Who had killed Viperious? Before he descended into that rabbit hole, he should probably double and triple his guards.

* * *

Soroykin stepped into Quorous’ tent, the heavy canvas walls glowing amber from the lanterns within. The scent of cheap perfume and expensive wine hung in the air. The mercenary stood with his back to him but quickly whipped around and glared, his hand instinctively moving to the dagger at his belt. “What do you want?” Beyond the man, a topless young woman with dark eyes shivered, clutching a blanket to her chest.

“News,” Soroykin began, his eyes taking in the plunder already accumulated in the tent—silver goblets, fine tapestries, and a chest that likely contained more valuables. “Viperious is dead.”

Quorous’ eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed with calculation. He turned to the girl, his voice softening just enough to be more command than threat. “Grab your things and go wait outside. I’ll send for you shortly.”

She grabbed her tunic and pulled it over her head, her eyes downcast but watchful as she slipped past Soroykin and out of the tent.

As soon as she disappeared, Quorous reached for a silver pitcher—clearly looted from some nobleman’s estate—and poured deep red wine into two goblets. “How and when?” he asked, offering one to Soroykin.

“Clean cut across the throat,” Soroykin replied, accepting the wine. “Professional work. Found him in his own tent with Brecc standing over him, looking as surprised as anyone.”

The mercenary cocked his head, swirling the wine before taking a long drink. “The Brotherhood of Assassins, you think?” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “The Council should have known better than to cross them in Wolfbern.” A smile played on his lips. “That bootlicker Brecc doesn’t have the manhood to have murdered anyone, but this does leave him technically in charge.”

“For now,” Soroykin agreed, setting his barely touched wine aside. He held up the scroll with its freshly broken seal. “He gave me terms for the parlay.”

“Let me see that,” Quorous snapped, yanking the scroll out of his hands. His eyes scanned the contents, a derisive snort escaping as he read. “Fool. ‘King of Bretagne and Cazidor’? The simpering worm thinks he can rule?” He tossed the parchment onto a table with maps and inventory lists of the city’s rumored treasures.

“I’m to deliver that to the garrison and wait for an answer,” Soroykin said, expressionless.

Quorous snatched up the rolled parchment and handed it back to him, stains from his wine-wet fingers marking the edges. “Here’s your answer: no. Toss that message into the nearest fire and wait till daybreak to deliver the news to our ‘king.'”

“No quarter then?” Soroykin asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Yes, but more importantly, full spoils of war.” A smile spread across the man’s features as he ran his thumb over a golden ring he wore—another piece of plunder. “Landros is said to have the finest treasury in northern Westfal. The Council promised me a percentage but with Viperious gone…” He shrugged. “Who’s to say how the spoils should be divided?”

Soroykin studied him. “The Council will send another representative.”

“Eventually. But by then, the choicest treasures will be long gone.” Quorous refilled his goblet. “Speaking of which, send the girl back in.”

Soroykin bowed, tucking the scroll into his belt.

Quorous seized his shoulder as he turned, his fingers digging in with surprising strength. “Issue a double ration of ale to all the men. Tomorrow will be a hard fight, and we need all the courage we can get, even if it comes from a barrel.” His eyes glittered with anticipation. “And send word to our agents inside the city. Tell them to be ready at the inner keep’s east gate at dawn.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Soroykin replied, the words hanging in the air between them like a test.

Quorous didn’t contradict the title, merely smiling as he released his grip. “Go. Tomorrow, Landros falls—with it, more wealth than most men see in a lifetime.”

As Soroykin slipped out of the tent, he glanced back to see Quorous already bent over his maps, calculating not battle positions, but the quickest routes to the city treasury.

* * *

Gall jerked awake, the moonlight filtering through a nearby window, casting shadows across his face. Annoyance flared within him, spurred by allowing himself to slip into that most human of failings, sleep, but more so because someone stood within arms’ reach. His hand moved instinctively to the Mordblade hilt on his sword belt, then relaxed as he recognized the silhouette. “Were you successful?”

“Yes, and no,” Riasean replied, his voice barely above a whisper. A shadow among shadows, the assassin knelt on one knee, still wearing dark cloth across most of his face.

“Is Brecc dead or not?” Gall asked, finding Riasean’s pale eyes gleaming in the darkness as the young man unmasked.

“He lives, but his Grand Council associate does not.” Riasean’s tone remained flat and professional. “The Councilman’s guard patterns changed at the last moment. I had to make a choice.”

Gall sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. Without Brecc, the Council would have no one to install as regent for Bretagne, and their hold over Cazidor would be gone in an instant. Cazidorian loyalists would rally behind Britta. Still, there was some satisfaction at having eliminated a member of the Council. “Unfortunate.”

“I could try again,” Riasean offered, his hand resting on the hilt of his dark knife.

“No, they’ll be expecting you this time.” Gall gazed toward the distant lights of the siege camp encircling Landros. “We will simply have to take our chances tomorrow when the mercenaries try to expand the breach in the outer walls. Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

Riasean nodded but didn’t move. His face showed indecisiveness, unusual for a man whose life depended on decisive action.

Gall suspected he knew the source. “You must put her out of your mind.”

“Is that possible?” A rare moment of vulnerability from the assassin.

“You must.” Gall’s voice softened slightly. “For your peace of mind.”

Riasean snorted. “I have none.” He paused. “But I understand what you’re saying,” he continued with a frown. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness as silently as he had appeared.

Gall did not watch him go. His thoughts drifted away into the night air, carried on the distant sounds of the besieged city preparing for what might be its final dawn.

Yes, let her go, but I cannot.

The memory of Larah’s face still burned in his mind, a constant reminder of his failure as a father and the focus of his purpose. He closed his eyes but did not sleep again. Tomorrow would decide not just the fate of Bretagne but all of Westfal.