ARC 1 - SANCTITY

CHAPTER 3 - THE VOID COMES

A constant fog kept thick by gentle rain blanketed the valley city of Bastion in the days following Raegn’s return. Despite the weather, he kept his normal schedule, training early in the morning and again late into the evening. He made the effort to check in on his vanguard and fulfill his other duties within the keep between, but it was the training that he looked forward to with each passing day.

Boots caked in mud and clothes soaked, he ran the sequences again. Transitioning from spear to sword, perfecting movements so there was no wasted motion, and using the shield as a weapon so that the enemy would not have a moment's reprieve. The walls of the training yard were slick with rain and glimmered in the light of the flames from several braziers that staved off the night when Raegn finished for the day.

He stopped by the baths in the keep and cleaned himself quickly in the luke-warm water to ensure he wouldn’t miss the late evening meal. It wasn’t that the food was particularly good. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had a meal he actually enjoyed. Each squeak of a mushroom against his teeth while he chewed brought a grimace to his face. Unfortunately, they and all the other bland fauna of the mountains were in almost every dish. Still, he learned years ago that forcing oneself to eat warded off any debilitating hunger pains during training. There were tricks to make each meal more tolerable, of course. He slathered stale bread in butter and dunked salted meat in brothy soup, but at the end of the day, he treated eating as another part of training.

After dining, Raegn retired to his quarters. His room was simple, a small square of stone walls and wooden flooring with only a small rug to keep bare feet from the cold stones. Years ago Raelle had chastised him for living so plainly. No reasonable girl would want to spend time with him in a room like this, but he failed to see the issue—the only time he spent here was to sleep.

The bed was stiff and Raegn pulled the blankets tight over his shoulders to stave off the cold air that always seemed to follow the rain. Sleep came quickly as it often did, the fatigue of the day eager to carry him to rest. He had just begun to lose himself to dreams when there was a rap at the door. He rose to sit on the edge of the bed as the door hinges creaked open enough to allow the head of a servant to peep in.

“Pardon the intrusion, Lord Raegn,” the servant said softly. “The War Council has been summoned to the throne room and I was asked to wake you with all haste.”

Raegn massaged his eyes. “Why?” he grumbled.

“If I understood correctly, my lord, Harlow’s vanguard has returned early.”

The next heartbeat hit much harder than the last. Impossible, he thought. Did they try to match my pace? It’s been what, five—no, six days? He cursed his tired mind for how long it took to count. He rose, tucking his long shirt into thick linen pants and pulling on a pair of clean boots before heading out into the halls of the keep. Maybe Harlow favored his method and went faster than usual? But if the Council was summoned perhaps they intended to squash the swift trips before more vanguards attempted them—and that would mean being reprimanded for being the catalyst.

Raegn pushed away the thought as he approached the throne room. Ulrich had already chastised him, what more could the Council say? He clenched his jaw and forced himself through the door. His footfalls were the only noise as he strode towards the large table in the middle of the room. Seven of the thirteen stood around the table, all in various stages of dress. Ulrich was already present and wore a thick gambeson with a single pauldron and brace on his forearm, a sword hung from his hip. Raegn silently questioned if the old warrior slept in some sort of armor each night or if he had been alerted ahead of the rest. Did Ulrich even own any clothing that wasn’t fit for combat? Or perhaps the Old Bear was only ever naked in the baths. Raegn’s musings were interrupted by the large doors at the front of the room swinging open. The remaining council members entered just as he took his place opposite Ulrich at the end of the table.

The thirteen assembled themselves around the oaken table, eyes idly scanning the large map pinned down its surface. There was no real need, each of them had seen it time enough to redraw it from memory, but it was easier to feign attentiveness and wait in silence. Raegn fought off a shiver and regretted not taking the time to put on a cloak or additional layers. His hair covered the back of his neck and fell over his ears, but it was still damp from his earlier bath and only worsened his chill. The rest of the lords were dressed more appropriately, having chosen to don heavier fabrics and tunics before leaving their residences. Several of the younger lords even wore pieces of armor over their clothing, a signal of their status as active warriors compared to their elders or those who had no place on the battlefield.

The group straightened as a gaunt man, head leaned ahead of slouched shoulders, entered from the back of the room. He was clad in dark earth tones and shrouded beneath a large black cloak that hung down to the floor and trailed behind tired strides. A short, black beard hid otherwise visible cheekbones, but did nothing to mask the dark rings surrounding sunken eyes.

Raegn watched as the man laboriously climbed the three steps to the throne and slumped into the large wooden chair positioned a dozen paces away from the head of the table. He wore no crown and to those not familiar with the customs of the Shield Cities the Lord of Bastion would look no different than any of the other nobility. But to those who lived in the far east, a single silver ring revealed the ruler. A sigil from the language of the Divine inscribed on the flat face of the plain band. The ring bonded to the soul and was impossible to remove until the wearer passed.

Raegn tried to picture his father as he had once been: a fiery warrior with a voice born for shouting from the tops of mountains. Even after the loss of an arm incurred while saving a Sentinel vanguard the Lord of Bastion had continued to stand tall. But it was not to be forever. The seasons had passed and either the injury or time caught up. Their gallant leader slowly withdrew, speaking less and wilting while sitting on the throne.

Ulrich turned and motioned to one of the guards near a door near the middle of the hall. The guardsman reached across and pulled the handle, allowing a Sentinel older than Raegn by half a dozen years to enter. Harlow’s shaved head was starting to show growth from his few days scouting and he still wore his Sentinel garb. He strode to a spot in front of the throne, his back to the rest, and kneeled. It was a tradition Raegn had long admired. Sentinels did not answer to the Council, but to the Lord of Bastion alone.

“Lord Edelgard, before you is Commander Harlow Debling of the Fifth Vanguard,” Ulrich stated.

The head of the man on the throne fell forward in a slight nod.

“My lord,” Harlow began, “after exiting the valley our vanguard split into three on the normal routes. I led the group headed for the Ridge. We encountered no enemies on our outward journey until the fourth day when we looked out over the Scarred Lands.”

Harlow paused momentarily, considering his next words, and in the silence the council members began to stir in agitation. Raegn chewed his lip but forbade himself from otherwise visibly showing his impatience.

“I apologize, my lords,” Harlow continued with a glance over his shoulder, “not in my lifetime did I expect to make such a report.” The Sentinel took a deep breath and pressed on. “From what we could see, the enemy numbers over ten thousand and appears organized. They are moving quickly, directly toward our pass. After careful deliberation amongst the vanguard, we estimate three days’ time before the first of them are upon us.”

Raegn watched Ulrich place ten black wooden discs onto the map and murmurs from the lords began to fill the room. Questions on the legitimacy of the report, whether the numbers or speed were possible, became rampant. Raegn didn’t question the validity, only where they had come from. He had seen nothing. Where had they been hiding? How could there be that many so soon? How could there be that many at all?

“Enough!” Ulrich yelled and silenced the ruckus. “I spoke with Harlow’s vanguard before summoning the council. Each of them was asked to come to their own assessment and the estimates were all similar. Unless you would like to accuse all six Sentinels that looked over that ridge of deception or inaccuracy, the report is to be believed.”

Raegn scanned those around the table, waiting for an accusation, but all eyes were downcast. The immediate rebuttal quelled, Ulrich now looked to the throne.

“Ulrich?” Lord Edelgard’s voice was hoarse.

“I will begin assembling our forces at once, my lord.” There was no hesitation from the aging warrior, who gave a slight bow. “I will send out the First Vanguard to confirm the enemy’s pace and—”

“No.”

Raegn was surprised Ulrich had heard the tired voice that interrupted him, but the Old Bear’s face remained steadfast.

“I see no need,” Lord Edelgard continued, “this report is enough. We have three days to prepare for an enemy greater than we’ve seen in our lifetimes. I will not risk valuable men this close to the battle.”

Raegn knew he had no official position within the council and his attendance had been minimal for some time now, but he spoke regardless. “If such a force is approaching we need more information!” he protested. “We’ve just returned, but the First has proven itself to be the fastest. Let me—”

“My decision is final,” the Lord of Bastion said with a raised hand. “It is late. We will all reason with clearer heads in the morning. Ulrich, I leave the preparations to you.”

Ulrich nodded and the Lord of Bastion rose, pushing himself out of the throne and exiting without another word. There was a momentary pause before the Council began to disperse. Some left swiftly, likely eager to return to their beds, while others lingered, murmuring in small groups before leaving the war room.

Raegn braced himself against the cold air that swirled in as the large wooden doors were held open by the guards for the Council to leave. Soon enough, only he and Ulrich remained, standing across from one another at the head of the table. Raegn opened his mouth to speak, but Ulrich beat him to words.

“Both of you are right,” the Old Bear said.

“How can we be? He’s going to let the Void, more than ten times the size of anything we’ve ever seen, simply descend on us!” Raegn replied heatedly.

“First,” Ulrich said with a fierce stare, “kill the guilt in the back of your mind before it poisons your every thought. The timeline does not matter. Perhaps, had you stuck to the normal scouting pace, you would have bought us an extra day. Or perhaps you would have still seen nothing and we would have had even less warning. Regardless, you are not at fault.”

How the Old Bear had managed to read him so easily every time was a mystery, but his mentor was right. Raegn had been doing the calendar math the moment Ulrich had placed the markers on the map. Had he put his home at a disadvantage?

“Do we even have a plan for something that large?” he asked.

Ulrich placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Raegn, you are right in wanting to take your vanguard out and gain more information.” The Old Bear idly pushed a red wooden disc around on the map, first towards the group of black, then back towards the mark where Bastion was. “Your father is also right. We have no reason to send a vanguard to skirmish and weaken them if they’ve organized into a single group. You might kill a few, but if they break off to chase you’d waste time, energy, and risk losing your entire vanguard.”

“But he’s taken every recommendation for the last, I can’t even remember how many years, without argument,” Raegn said, swiping his hand through the air, “and now he can just decide to ignore your counsel, our counsel, and do as he pleases?”

“He is the Lord of Bastion, so yes,” Ulrich said, “and you would do well to keep those words between us.”

Raegn followed Ulrich’s eyes to the guards across the room. The redness in his cheeks rose further as a twinge of embarrassment bit him.

“It is our duty to support him. Besides,” Ulrich said with a slight grin, “he’s your father. Never have I wondered from whom you get your stubbornness or affinity for rash decisions.”