Leroy's Writing Space

The Bankrupted Tyrant

Chapter One – Velvet Sword

General Kopek should not have been a stranger to the Royal Palace. As supreme commander of the Talmut Army, his counsel was often sought in both times of war and peace. Yet as the titanic throne doors yawned open, and he marched into his master’s inner sanctum, Kopek couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t taken a wrong turn.  

Burgundy. Magenta. Maroon. Lime. Mango.  

These horrid colours and many, many more, were everywhere. The drapes, the banners, the carpets, the cushions, each a hideous shade of pink and purple, wrestling one another for attention. It was a gaudy barrage that would have blinded a lesser elf.

And that was just the decoration.  

As Kopek’s sight begrudgingly adjusted, he noticed that the royal court was larger than before. A lot larger. What had once been a select group of advisors and bodyguards had transformed into a huge assembly, or rather, a huge party.

They lay sprawled across the endless pillows and couches that dotted the equally endless carpets. They fiddled with instruments and scribbled with quills. Some were painting and others dancing. They frolicked, chatted, laughed, and made merry. A few even dangled at the ends of very long silky ropes, twirling, spinning and posing.

They were all dressed in an array of silks and satins, looking only slightly less offensive than the interior design. Kopek felt his head spinning. Had a circus invaded? What were they doing in here?  

“General…”

The room went quiet as a distant voice tried, and failed, to boom. Kopek stepped forward. “Your excellency.” He bowed deeply.

“Approach,” said the voice, and Kopek did.

He marched past the legions of poets, painters and dancers, earning more than a few awestruck stares. Kopek was tall, even for an elf. What’s more, he was a hero, even though he didn’t really look like one. The heroes of elven lore were always handsome, elegant and charismatic. Kopek was precisely none of those things.

Kopek had scars. He had seen many battles, so it made sense for him to have scars. The heroes in the poems and paintings also had scars, but theirs were neat little gashes that somehow made their owners more handsome. It gave their faces a touch of devilish daring.  

That struck Kopek as curious. The people who tried to hack his face open had done so without the slightest consideration for his appearance. Consequently, his numerous scars were uneven, crooked, and ugly. He looked less devilishly daring and more devilishly deformed.

Kopek’s lofty height, mingled with the fleshy jigsaw he called a face, made him look, to put it kindly, unsettling. To put it unkindly, if he appeared in a play, he would lumber into the hero’s path, roar incoherently and wave around a club before being unceremoniously murdered. 

He didn’t mind. It was what it was. The Talmut Army also didn’t mind. Beauty was purely optional in their ranks, which was fortunate for Kopek, as he was quite good at soldiering and nothing else.

The General came to a halt before the throne. He knelt down and averted his gaze to the floor. “Your excellency.”

His master’s throne was made of gold. It sat upon a huge platform that was also made of gold. The golden platform was tall. Very tall. Taller than even Kopek. So tall in fact that there was a flight of stairs (gold, of course) required just to reach the top.

The golden throne, another recent addition to the palace, was the flashiest, most expensive, most dreadfully uncomfortable throne in all the three continents , and with good reason. Sitting upon it was Kopek’s master, the ruler of the Talmut Empire, heir to the royal throne and self-proclaimed monarch of everything.

Prince Salak.  

The Prince, clad in his finest purple dressing gown, reclined awkwardly on his golden seat. He smiled. He had every reason to smile. The past few weeks had been unprecedently generous to him. It was all going so perfectly and was about to get even better.

Kopek had presented himself, as requested, and awaited instruction. Salak, however, didn’t feel that the moment was sufficiently dramatic enough.

So, he waited. The world waited with him.

As they waited, Kopek felt sweat trickle down his forehead. It was a hot day in Kobe. Every day was a hot day in Kobe. Being a desert continent had that effect. It was a lousy time to be wearing armour, even ceremonial armour.

The seconds slithered by.

At last, the Prince extended a hand. “Rise.”  

Kopek rose. Salak opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it again. “Hmmmn,” he frowned. “Actually, go back down again.”

Salak had forgotten how tall the General was. Atop his golden platform, the Prince was still looking down at him, but insufficiently so. This moment had to be perfect. The General grovelled again and the Prince’s smile returned.

“Do you know why I have summoned you here?”

Kopek had no idea. He knew very little about Prince Salak. He apparently enjoyed fine wines, finer foods, reading poetry, soft sheets and softer maidens to share them with, but who didn’t? The rest of him was a mystery, a mystery wrapped in a silky bathrobe. 

His carnival entourage probably knew all about him, but Kopek wasn’t exactly on a first name basis with any of them. “I do not know, your excellency.”

The Prince chuckled. This was good news indeed. It gave him license to continue speaking. “What, General, is the one thing that every great Empire needs?”

Kopek furrowed his brow. The one thing?

“An army?” he ventured. Silence suggested this was not the correct answer. Kopek furrowed his brow further as his mind travelled to unfamiliar lands. “Wells?” he guessed. “Rain? Taxes? Hospitals? Horses? Markets? Laws? Trade? Roads? Farms? Courts? A sewer system…?”

“A strong leader,” said the Prince, curtly, “a father, one to whom the children of the empire can look to for guidance and strength in a world of deceit and madness. One to whom the burden of leadership must be placed, lest the backs of those lesser break under its mighty strain.” 

Kopek nodded his head. He didn’t quite understand, but he nodded anyway. All around him, Salak’s lackeys also nodded their heads, almost in synchronisation. 

“We have been blessed,” continued Salak, unprompted, “from humble beginnings wandering the sands, and picking at its scraps, we have blossomed into kings and kingdoms, entrusted with the word of God, the safeguard of culture and the world’s enlightenment.”   

Kopek agreed with some of those strangely worded sentiments. In the last few centuries, the Talmut elves had certainly advanced in leaps and bounds. Three hundred years ago, they would have been having this conversation in a tent.

“And to whom do we owe thanks?” Salak rose, dramatically, from his golden throne. “Builders, scholars, artists and warriors, all guided by one vision and one visionary; one master, above all else, to funnel their talents and let every elf realise their united potential. It is a sacred bond, held together by the greatest trust.”

Kopek nodded his head. So did the lackeys. They smiled lovingly at their patron, their eyes simmering with every passing syllable. Salak beamed at his mostly willing audience. They loved it! He loved it too. He glided down his golden stairs and stood before the kneeling General.

“The great question remains, however. How does the master earn the trust of the servant? I have reigned not two weeks, and this question has plagued me more than any other. How do I prove my right to rule?”

Kopek, not realising the question was rhetorical, thought hard on it. “His excellency might explain that he is the sole surviving heir to the throne.”

Salak’s smile evaporated. “What?”

“With the passing of your father, and the sudden death of your older brother, your excellency is the only remaining heir to the throne. Your excellency rules by right of survivor.”

Salak blinked while the words sank in. As they sank, a frown made its way across his face.  

“General…” he said slowly, “I am about to become the undisputed ruler of the largest Empire on the planet, the sovereign of this continent and master of over thirteen million elves and men. I was hoping to reassure them of my worth with something a little more moving than everyone else who can do the job is dead!”       

The General glanced up. “Is there something wrong with that, your excellency?”

The room was stunned into silence. The lackeys were horrified. The only sound came from a painter, commissioned by the Prince to immortalise this interview into oils. Salak was now in the preliminary stages of regretting that decision.

The Prince, one eye winking of its own accord, swept past the kneeling Kopek, through his audience, and marched up to a large map, hanging against a wall.

“Observe this map,” said the Prince. Kopek did. “Do you see anything unusual?”

Kopek studied the huge map. It was of the three continents. To the east were the arid lands of Kobe, where desert elves and desert men did desert things beneath the desert sun. To the west were the perpetually wet plains of Trodel, where power squabbles and pettiness were as persistent as the rain. To the north, and a little to the east, were the monster ridden steppes of Crottle, where brave explorers and gallant adventurers went to die.

As hard as he looked, Kopek could find no discrepancy. “Everything appears to be in order, your excellency.” 

“Is it!?” spat Salak. He pounded the map with a fist, causing it to wobble. “Do you not see a glaring blemish? An unholy blight? A loathsome hive of complete and total degeneracy?”

Kopek looked again. Every kingdom had their territories shaded with a different colour. The Talmut Empire was, as of recently, purple. All of Kobe was coloured purple, as was a large swath of southeast Trodel. There was an orange blob here and a splash of yellow there, but no other kingdom had the size, nor the flamboyance, of the Talmut Empire.

Kopek, for the life of him, could not find any glaring blemishes, nor unholy blights, not even a loathsome hive of complete and total degeneracy. He offered Salak a stoic expression.

Salak’s eyes narrowed. “There…” He stabbed the map with a finger. “Observe it and observe it well.”

Kopek followed Salak’s digit, and squinted his eyes. At last he understood. “Gertrudia?” he said. They were the Prince’s problem?

“Yes,” said the Prince darkly. “Gertrudia…” 

He glared at the tiny smudge of grey that denoted the Gertrudian Empire. It mostly consisted of their capital city, Gertrudia.

The Gertrudians had an infamous reputation for being the Empire of one city. The truth was mildly less embarrassing. In addition to Gertrudia, the Gertrudian Empire could also boast several unfashionable castles, a smattering of underpopulated towns and a small fishing village called Volkst.

The grey smear of Gertrudian Empire was surrounded on all sides by purple. The only reason their remaining territory hadn’t been gobbled up with the rest of their Empire was that the castles had no strategic value, the towns were less than worthless and Volkst didn’t appear on any map, including this one.

The General was curious as to why these has-beens bothered the Prince. “Your excellency, have the Gertrudians another plot against the royal throne?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Salak He returned to Kopek’s side. “But I have not brought you here to unravel Gertrudian schemes.” God forbid, he thought. He didn’t trust Kopek to unravel cotton. “You are here because Gertrudia is a lingering disease, festering away in the heartland of our mighty Empire. Its existence is an insult to the decent and the proper.”

Kopek waited for something resembling an instruction, but it didn’t come. “What would you have me do, your excellency?’

Salak puffed out his chest. His heart swelled. This was it. The moment he had been waiting for. The moment he had practised a dozen times in front of his mirror this morning. The moment! His moment!

“You General,” he placed his hands on Kopeks bulging shoulders, “are going to take it.”

“Take it?” said Kopek, his eyes widened, “take Gertrudia?”

The Prince beamed. “Yes, General.”

“Gertrudia, your excellency?” repeated Kopek.

“Yes.”

“You order me to take the city of Gertrudia, as in, conquer it, your excellency?”  

Salak’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

Kopek stared at the Prince. The Prince glared back. A moment passed. Someone coughed.

“Your excellency…” said Kopek, the words struggled in his throat, “are you…”

Salak’s lips tightened. “Am. I. What?”

Kopek cleared his throat. “…sure?”

Silence descended, again. The General had questioned a direct order from his rightful and absolute monarch. That was something that just didn’t happen. It had certainly never happened to the last king, or the one before that. The crowd held its breath. Even the painter looked up from his work. History truly was in the making.

Prince Salak went red. He looked like he had just been slapped. A moment later so did Kopek, because he had been.

“Yes I’m sure, you lumbering idiot!” said Salak, waving his wounded hand around. “You are going to assemble the army and take Gertrudia! Conquer it! Vanquish it! Rip out its beating heart and crush it in your gauntlets!”

Kopek was silent. He had never questioned a direct order before. Then again, he had never been directly ordered to conquer Gertrudia before. The city of the triple walls. The city of the iron sea gates. The city whose people could talk day into night. He might as well have been ordered to conquer the sun.   

Regardless, an order was an order. “It shall be done, your excellency.”   

“Excellent,” said Salak, tersely. He turned back to his army of flunkies. “You are probably wondering, General, why it is I wish to attack that den of snakes…”

“Actually, your excellency…” 

“Since we crawled out of the Talmut Stretch,” the Prince explained, “since we came to this place, upon starved bellies and with empty dreams, every chieftain and every king has contributed to this Empire, built it from nothing into everything. My grandfather pushed the thieves and the cowards from our sands. My father, God rest his soul, even marched into the brittle Trodel-Born lands and gave them proper masters. We have thrived greatly, but this…” he waved his hands dismissively at the Gertrudian part of the map, “worthless eyesore holds out still. I shall conquer them, lay waste to them, and then, in the ragged graveyard of Gertrudia, shall I at last be crowned King.”

He concluded his speech by regally raising his arms. His audience roared its approval. Hands clapped. Feet stamped. Streamers were hurled through the air. Salak lapped it up, returning their smiles and regally waving a hand.

“Your excellency,” said Kopek, breaking Salak out of his trance, “what of the Gertrudians?”

“What of them?” Salak snapped.

“They might object to this, your excellency.”

“That’s where you come in, General,” said Salak, patiently, “you are to muster an army from the four corners of my Empire. When our ranks have swelled, we shall march together to Gertrudia and, at last, it shall be brought into the fold. I know this shall not be easy, the city has never fallen…”

“Except once.”

“What?”

“Hasn’t fallen, except that one time, your excellency.”  

The Prince breathed in. He needed Kopek. He hated everything about the fact that he needed Kopek. It was an ode to injustice that a visionary like himself be beholden to a blunt object like General Kopek, but needs must. He breathed out.   

“Except that one time,” said Salak. “Nevertheless, for the glory of my people, for the glory of God and for the betterment of everyone, everywhere, you will go to Gertrudia and you shall destroy it. You have a fortnight,” he turned back to his audience, “and then we march, to glory and destiny!”

He was about to continue talking when the General interrupted.

“A fortnight!?” said Kopek. Two weeks? Preparation and muster for a major campaign in a single fortnight? It simply wasn’t done. It simply couldn’t be done.

“Yes General,” Salak’s voice turned sly “surely a leader as accomplished as yourself could manage that?”  

“But…”

“Then it is settled!” Salak clapped his hands together, “one fortnight, and not a moment later.”   

Kopek’s eyes sank to the floor. “Yes, your excellency.”

“Good,” said Salak. He grinned at his alleged victory. “There is something else, General.” Salak marched back up the golden steps and sat upon his golden throne. “Our arrangements with the… others has at last borne fruit.”

The General looked up. “Your excellency?”

“A deal, brokered by my father has now been honoured. We are finally in possession of the…miracleweapons.”

The crowd cooed its interest. Rumours had been floating around the palace for some time about the weapons Salak’s father had purchased during his reign. Following his death, Salak was able to uphold the arrangement and said mystery weapons were now property of the Talmut Empire.

“Of course, this is all a grand secret,” continued Salak, “everything heard here is to stay here.” Hundreds of heads nodded in agreement. A dozen people scribbled it down onto parchment. Salak rose to his feet. “And General, you shall be granted these magnificent weapons, the future of weapons! The end of sieges and,” his voice turned cold. “The death of Gertrudia…”

He stood still, arms outstretched, waiting for Kopek to say something, anything, worthy of this great moment.

The General nodded. “Yes, your excellency.”

            The Prince’s smile, once again, dissolved. A once in a lifetime moment. History to be echoed throughout the millennia. Wasted. Simply wasted. He collapsed on his throne, in an exhausted heap.

“Leave,” he said, and the General did.

Outside the palace, Kopek’s adjutants were waiting. They saluted their General as he approached.

Kopek returned the salute. “I bring orders from the Royal Throne.”

Every face fell. Since the death of Salak’s far more popular brother, relations between the Royal Court and the military had hit an all-time low. Just last week Kopek had ordered a captain whipped for referring to Prince Salak as ‘Prince Puffin’.

“We have been ordered by His Excellency, the Prince, to take the city of Gertrudia,” said Kopek, “for the honour and glory of the Talmut Empire.” 

This momentous announcement was met with a variety of vacant and horrified expressions.    

“He wants us to take Gertrudia, sir?” said a young Lieutenant. 

“Indeed.”

The lieutenant stared at Kopek in total disbelief. As the shock wore off, Kopek found himself besieged by various questions and comments about the upcoming campaign.

“Is his excellency serious?”

“Take Gertrudia? Where does he want us to take it?”

“Is this grounds for insanity?”

“I’d like to request a transfer.”

“As would I, my mother is very sick.”

“So’s my dog.”

The General sighed.

This was going to be a long campaign.

Back at his headquarters, there was a large vault filled with battle plans, both offensive and defensive. They accounted for every feasible military situation the Talmut Empire might face. From rebellions in Jargot to naval invasions of Larrikin, almost every situation was provided for, and the plans were regularly updated to keep up with changing circumstance.

Ten years ago, when Kopek had first assumed his post as supreme commander, he had committed each and every one of them to memory. The Gertrudian file made for an interesting read. The plans for a direct attack against the city of Gertrudia consisted of a single piece of paper, with a single word written on it:

Don’t.   

As the years went by, every other file changed. That one did not.

Nevertheless, an order had been issued. There was no time to spare. Not when he had a single fortnight to concentrate the standing forces and prepare for the expedition into Trodel. He summoned his war council, set his officers to work, prepared homeland garrisons, had his personal will updated and bid farewell to his dogs.

The campaign for Gertrudia had begun.

Chapter Two –The Frying Pan

War is hell.

Worse than that, it’s expensive.

So thought, at least, the Princess, slouched upon her throne. She was reading the latest expenditure report. Bad news. It was always bad news.

Some would say the Empire had fallen on hard times. Some would be bloody wrong. The Empire had fallen through hard times, plummeted past crisis and was now a pioneer in the unexplored realms of catastrophe.

The Princess glared at the report a few moments more and then decided on decisive action. She violently scrunched it up and filed it on the ground behind her. Then she swore, folded her arms and glared at nothing in particular.  

This was Princess Gertrude, ruler of Gertrudia.

She was having a bad day.

Her little outburst echoed around the empty throne room. There was a time when the throne room bustled with activity. Lords and ladies, nobles and advisors, all coming together to scheme, plot, argue, scheme, shout, backstab, gossip, complain, scheme and, if time permitted, run the Empire.

Those days were distant memories.

These days, the room mostly consisted of Gertrude, her writing desk and an avalanche of papers she didn’t want to read. Most of the Royal Palace was similarly empty. Furnishings and furniture had vanished, either into pawn shops or the fireplace. 

 The writing desk was a cluttered wasteland. Dirty plates, half empty coffee mugs, broken quills and piles of reports, the type that had the word urgent written on them in big, red urgent letters, sprawled everywhere.

Gertrude, fighting off the subtle urge to die, reached for the nearest urgent report and reluctantly started to read it. She hadn’t cleared the first sentence before there was a knock at the door.

“Enter…” she grumbled.

The door inched open, and a little figure cautiously poked his head in. It was a Halfling, doing one of the few jobs a Halfling could do in the big city. Taking a big gulp, he approached the throne with the cool, collected air of a man being dragged to the guillotine.  

“Y…your…your highness…” He held out a shaking hand. In it was a letter, sealed with wax. Gertrude said nothing as she leaned over and snatched it from his trembling grasp.

She ripped it open.

It was from the Berkhill Sugarclothe Factory.

The factory was one of Gertrudia’s leading suppliers of sugarclothe. They were, however, severely lacking in machinery, workers and, as of late, sugarclothe. Gertrude, whose tiara had diadems cut from the finest glass, couldn’t afford to do anything about that.

Or anything else, really.    

‘Tighten your belts’, she had written previously. She now had their response: ‘Please send belts’.

Gertrude’s eyes narrowed. Her teeth ground together. Her face turned one of the angrier shades of red. The letter crumpled in her hands.

The Halfling took a large step backwards as Gertrude grabbed a quill and scratched out a two-word reply. She punched the wax seal with her signature ring and forced it into the quivering hands of the little messenger. Without a word, he bowed again and scurried away.

The Princess scowled at his retreat.

He wasn’t the only messenger about the place. There was a small outfit of Halfling couriers, working tirelessly to bring Gertrude a steady stream of bad news. Sure enough, the first one had barely fled when there was another knock at the door.  

“Enter…” said Gertrude, her tone suggesting he really shouldn’t.  

Another little figure entered. He too marched up to the throne and bowed before the Princess. He had an urgent message. Gertrude sighed, opened it, read it, swore and then read it again. Her eyes tracked along the page until they found the thing which had angered her the most.

There are no buyers in Badenhop, nor even Larrikin, though we can’t say that we are surprised, the circumstances considered. The other states have expressed little interest for the merchandise, especially in bulk. We shall return within the month. I estimate ninety percent of cargo remaining be unsold and five percentage lost to accident…

Gertrude rumbled dangerously as she scrunched up the letter. It quickly joined the expenditure report. The messenger shivered as Gertrude’s rising dark shadow loomed over him. Her voice was venom.

“Leave.”

The messenger did just that. He opened the door, just as another messenger was about to knock. The newcomer watched his companion charge past him. Then he saw Gertrude, or rather, he saw the boundless malevolence in her bloodshot eyes.  

He closed the door. Life was precious, he decided. The message, whatever it was, could surely afford a short three-hour detour.

As he scampered back down the hallway, silence returned to the throne room. Gertrude, her arms once again crossed, sat in concentrated rage. It was stressful business running an Empire. It was even worse when you were running it directly into the ground.

It wasn’t fair.

She wasn’t ready for this.

Gertrude’s previous royal duties had mostly consisted of standing around at royal functions and being unsuccessfully offered in marriage to rich foreigners. Somehow, this had failed to prepare her for the rigours of managing a kingdom.

The Princess allowed her head to collapse. It disappeared beneath the clutter of the writing desk.

Sure, it wasn’t a big Empire (in fact it was embarrassingly small) but bringing an Empire back from the brink of collapse was work for a genius, or preferably a team of them. It was not a job for Princess She Has A Great Personalityand her seven weeks, on the job, experience. 

Gertrude sighed. While in the delicate process of feeling sorry for herself, she had spied something amongst the desk debris. A small portrait, housed in a silver frame. She plucked it from the mess and looked at it.

It was her family. Her mother, her father, her dozen siblings and, of course, herself. There they were, all pretending to smile, unaware of what the future held. Gertrude sniffed. She felt a single tear roll down her cheek.

Why aren’t you here? she thought to herself. The tears intensified. “Why did you have to go? Why aren’t you here, suffering instead of me?”

She hurled the portrait across the room.

Stupid prats.  

This was all their bloody fault.  

“Guards!” she barked.

A palace guard, covered head to toe in plate mail, clinked and clanked his way into the throne room. He was tall, fat, and like everyone else in the Gertrudian Palace Guard, not a Gertrudian at all. This great hulking monstrosity was a Hoglite, something between a man and pig. He smacked his helmet in a clumsy salute.

“Go fetch the Minister,” growled Gertrude. “The usual one.”

The guard smacked his helmet again and clanked his way out of the room. These were desperate times. So desperate, in fact, that Gertrude was going to have to ask for help.

She slouched back on her throne and ran her fingers through her hair. She thought of what the merchant had written, his total failure to sell any of the merchandise. After a few moments’ meditation, she decided that, despite everything, she wasn’t angry at him.

She was furious.

There would be hell to pay for this.

A short while later, there was a sharp knock at the door. Gertrude didn’t answer. The door opened anyway and in slinked a man with grey hair and a wrinkled forehead. He wore a smart black suit with a purple sash. He also wore a smile, the type a vulture might wear as it circled you in the desert.

This was Minister Koch, a representative of the Imperial Ministry. He approached the throne.

“Good morning, your highness,” He gave Gertrude a very low and formal bow. “Your most humble servant, before you as ordered.”  

“Good morning?” sneered Gertrude, “Have you read these reports!?” She waved a few random documents in his face. “Do you have an idea what’s going on around here?”

“Your highness,” said the Minister, his fixed smile didn’t waver, “your most obedient Ministry is well abreast of the situation.” This was hardly surprising. They were the ones writing the reports. “We are well aware of any and all issues that your most illustrious highness wishes to discuss.”

“Oh you are, are you?” Gertrude chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant noise. “Well I’m real glad to hear that, because it’s a funny old mess we’ve found ourselves in, isn’t it?” She spoke softly, like a flame sizzling its way along a fuse. “Merchant ships coming back empty handed, nobles heading to pastures greener, Volkst threatening independence, again, and a national treasury I can fit inside my pocket…”

She rose to her feet and stomped up to the Minister. He held his ground, though not without some effort. He was well aware that Gertrude only had two moods, about to explode and exploding.    

“Now, of course,” continued Gertrude, “as it is the Ministry’s job to sort out problems such as these, I am just dying for you to tell me what the hell we are going to do now?”

The Minister, now face to face with the incensed Princess, manufactured a grin. 

“Of course, your highness, of course! We, of the Ministry, as always, stand ready to leap to the defence of our fair and righteous Empire. After all, was it not our office that discovered how dangerously undertaxed the lesser classes were? Was it not the Ministry that filled the salt mines and emptied the homeless shelters with but one Imperial Provision?”  

“Very true,” said Gertrude, “but that was yesterday. How does that help me today?”

“Well, your highness…” said the Minister, “many of our previous suggestions have prompted a stream of revenue into the city and opened us up for a rich portfolio of exciting opportunities. What of the government seizures of all taverns and brothels? What of the conversation of merchant ships to privateer vessels?”

“I wouldn’t call them roaring triumphs,” said Gertrude, “but yes, you did suggest them. And yes, they were helpful, but, again, that was yesterday. What have you got for me today?”

“Your highness…” the Minister thought for a moment then abruptly perked up, “it is my happy duty to report, that we, of the Ministry, have indeed reached our peak efficiency! All potential revenue sources have been streamlined to perfection, leaving us without current requirement to further our highly specialised services, in this very particular category.”   

The Minister beamed. Gertrude did not.

“Are you trying to tell me,” said Gertrude, her tone turning dangerous, “that you worthless suits haven’t a single good idea left for me?”  

“Your highness, there are a great multitude of…”

“Quiet!” barked Gertrude, “is there not a damn coin left to steal in this stupid city!?”

“But of course there are coins in the city, your highness.”  

There was treasure left in the city, most of it privately owned and buried. Even if it all could be found, and stolen, there would not be enough to even come close to covering Gertrudia’s growing list of expenses. Not only that, but the Ministry feared that any more taxes would run the serious risk of riots, perhaps even rebellion, which would just bring about more financial burden, damaging both buildings and serfs.  

“It is simply the opinion of the Ministry that the funds would be better sought from external sources,” he added.  

Gertrude scowled. “From outside?”  

“I’m afraid so, your highness.” 

Gertrude continued to scowl. The situation called for it.

On the continent of Trodel, there were nine kingdoms. All nine were signatories to the Eternal Oaken Tree Alliance, seven had economic treaties and two were at war. The two belligerents, Larrikin and Badenhop, just so happened to be Gertrudia’s primary importers.

Gertrude massaged her head. “Are they still fighting over that stupid forest?”        

“I’m afraid both Larrikin and Badenhop have declared Cumberwood Forest theirs by right, your highness” said the Minister. “The Larrikins want to cut down the forest and build more farmland for their burgeoning population. This, of course, has outraged the elves of Badenhop, who want to burn the forest down as fuel for their smoke factories.”

“Smoke factories?” said Gertrude, “what in the hell does a smoke factory make?”

“Smoke,” said the Minister.

Gertrude shook her head. “And neither side is backing down?”

“Alas not, your highness,” said the Minister.

The Cumberwood War had put a severe strain on the Gertrudian Empire’s trading capabilities. With all the fighting going on, no one wanted to buy handheld mirrors or the little umbrellas you put into drinks. They wanted arrows, spears, swords and many other things Gertrudia did not have or produce.

The city’s warehouses were now filled to the brim with juggling pins, drum kits, broomsticks, plumes, tiny quills, spinning tops, portrait frames, amusing hats and gravy holders, all of which had spent the last few months diligently collecting dust.

The Empire’s lifeblood had been cut off and Gertrudia now found itself in the curious position of losing a war it wasn’t even fighting.

“This is unacceptable,” said Gertrude. “Our neighbours are butchering each other. Do they have any idea how inconvenient that is for me?”

“Tragically not, your highness,” said the Minister, “but all attempts to engage their embassies have been fruitless. Both kingdoms are adamant. They believe the forest is theirs by right and they are willing to fight to the death over it.”  

Incidentally, the forest in question was actually owned by a third kingdom, Brom, who had pointed this out on numerous occasions. Brom, however, did not have a standing army, so no one really cared what they thought.    

“So,” said Gertrude, “what are you suggesting then?”

“Well,” said the Minister, admiring his fingertips, “there is one thing left to do…” 

“Yes?”

“Your highness, considering the recent international shift and contemporary supply and demand regarding weaponry…”

“No.”

“But your highness,” said the Minister, “while I understand there was a minor setback with the last…”

“When the wastelanders found out, they burned down the inner farmlands.”

“Only most of them,” said the Minister.

“The peasants starved that winter.”

“Only most of them,” said the Minister.

“Not happening,” Gertrude folded her arms. The desert elves had made their position quite clear on the subject of Gertrudian weapons production. Antagonising the Talmut Empire was precisely the last thing Gertrude wanted to do. Her father had tried it and come up short. She had no intention of following in his footsteps, especially given recent history.   

The Minister was silent. It unnerved Gertrude to think that a man as practical as the Minister could be out of ideas. A sensible person, completely unburdened by integrity or compassion. Heartbreakingly, if he didn’t think there was a coin left to steal in the city, then it was the horrid truth.

Gertrude returned to her throne and clasped her hands together. They needed a plan. A scheme. But what could they do?

There wasn’t a kingdom on the three continents that would loan them money. Gertrudians were about as welcome on the international stage as outbreaks of typhus. There was no more worthwhile property to sell, nor land to cede.

Sending out the merchant fleets and hoping for the best had been the last plan. A rather desperate one at that. Sadly, there had been no outbreak of ostentatiousness amongst the warring soldiers, and the plumes had sold rather poorly. The funny hats fared little better.

It’s this stupid war, thought Gertrude. Gertrudia was a city of sails and sales. It lived or died on trade. No trade meant no Gertrudia.     

They would have to wait out the war, but how long would that take? Every time she launched the merchant fleets, it was money out of her increasingly empty pocket. She needed to know how long this financial dry spell was going to last.

Gertrude needed to know the impossible. She needed to know what the future held for Trodel. Unfortunately, she knew exactly the person to call. She took a very, very deep breath and muttered a prayer. God help them all, that it came to this.

“Minister…” she hung her head in resignation, “go fetch the Mystic.”

The Minister’s smile wavered, faltered and then finally died. “Y-Your highness,” he stammered, “surely there is no need for…”

“Just do it!”  

The Minister stiffened and held up his nose. “But of course, your highness.”

He bowed stiffly and slinked away. Gertrude watched him disappear into the great hall. She enjoyed the idea of who, or rather what, was coming about as much as he did. Desperate times, however, called for desperate measures.

Very, very desperate measures. 

Gertrude’s head sank back into her hands. It was a miserable and hopeless business in a miserable and hopeless world. All things were truly unfair and no one else could ever understand just how terribly she suffered…

Someone knocked at the door.

Gertrude violently resurfaced. “Bugger off!”

Whoever was on the other side wisely took the advice. There were no more knocks. Gertrude grunted. Her head went back into her hands. It was all so very unfair.    

Fortunately, Gertrude had developed an elegant coping mechanism for times such as these. She reached into her desk and pulled out a bottle. She yanked out the cork and threw it away. It would not be returning to the bottle. The princess took a long pull and grunted with dissatisfaction.

It had been a long day. Not at all helping was a peculiar feeling, one of being watched. Eyes staring down at her. Cold eyes.

Calculating.

Judging. 

Smug.

This wasn’t just Gertrude’s damaged psyche taking its toll. There really were a set of cold, calculating eyes, smugly judging her from afar.

“And you can shut up as well,” hissed Gertrude. She glared up at the portrait, dangling above her throne. The portrait stared back at her, still judging, still calculating and still smug beyond all comparison.

Gertrude sighed.     

It had been a very long day.

And it was about to get somuch longer.

Chapter Three – Feet of Strength

It was wintertime in Trodel.

That meant rain.

Lots of rain.

An utter, inescapable torrent of rain.

It often rained in Trodel, but in Gertrudia, it rained all year round. This was due to an ongoing feud between the Gertrudian administration and the Weather Spirits.

For a year of traditional weather, all the Weather spirits asked for was ten virgin sacrifices, or cash equivalent. This year, Gertrudia had offered four copper coins, two spinsters and a used teabag.

The Weather Spirits were not pleased. So it rained.

In the past week there had been about ten non-consecutive minutes of sunshine. The rest was rain and plenty of it. The ground had turned into mud and the mud had turned into a quagmire.

It was this same quagmire that the glorious Talmut Army sloshed, squelched and splashed its way through. Uniforms were drenched. Boots were caked in mud and falling apart. Wagons were getting stuck every hundred feet and had to be laboriously unstuck.

The ground itself was resentful of the invaders, or indeed, anyone caught within its boundaries. Somehow, the elven army trudged forward, through the cloudy mist that covered these strange lands. Their prey loomed in the distance.

“Gertrudia…” said Salak.

He couldn’t see the city, but felt it was the right time to abruptly say its name.

The Prince, mounted on his finest white stallion, marvelled at his army, as it crawled through the wasteland. It was all happening now! They were marching straight into the history books. Into destiny! The total destruction of the Gertrudian Empire!

After this campaign, Salak’s legacy would be secured, his glory eternal.

Kopek was also there. He was thinking about shoes. Specifically, he wondered if his army had brought enough of them. He had ordered the quartermasters to arrange for extra provisions, but time was short. The shoes they had managed to scrounge were designed for the sands of Kobe, not the endless wetlands of Trodel.

The results were unfortunate. It was not unusual for a soldier to yank his boot out of the muck, only to find the sole ripped off the bottom. The boots were being ruined faster than the cobblers could repair them. They would be entering Gertrudia barefoot at this rate.  

“Breathtaking,” said Salak, breaking Kopek out of his shoe induced stupor, “simply breathtaking, is it not?”           

Kopek did not know what Salak was talking about. “Yes, your excellency.”

“To think that,” Salak dramatically extended a hand, “before our very eyes, marches the largest and most glorious army the world has ever seen.”

Despite the best efforts of the rain and mud, it was still a sight like no other. Almost forty thousand elves and men, most of the Talmut Army, marched, or at least tried to march, down what was supposed to be a road.

They had just come from the small Gertrudian town of Hendrek, which had been taken without a fight. When the locals saw the Talmut Army approach, they presumed the elves were simply lost. The puzzled mayor, a scrawny little balding man, was presented to Salak.

“Is this about the taxes?” the mayor wringed his hands. “We’re a little behind, sure, but I swear, we’ll have it. You know we’re good for it…”

“Silence!” cried Salak, grandly, “You have been vanquished by the combined might of Kobe.” He had personally accepted the surrender of every Gertrudian town, village and roadside tavern they had passed, and had the portraits to prove it. “Your lands, your lives, even your very destinies are now one with the Talmut Empire, whose greatness you are invited to share and embrace.”

“Embrace?” said the mayor. His shifty eyes darted about. “Where did you say you were from?”

“We hail from the greatest Empire to ever grace the face of this earth.”

“Yeah,” said the mayor, fidgeting, “but is it about the taxes?”

“Don’t try to distract us with your sly words,” said Salak. He trotted away on his horse. “Today it is…uh,” he looked at a nearby road sign, “Hen-deck, tomorrow… Gertrudia!”

He rode away, quite satisfied with the interview.

The mayor scratched his head. “What’s a hen deck?”

So far, this had been a recurring pattern as the Talmut Army marched through the Gertrudian Empire. They encountered a group of buildings, Salak declared it conquered, there was a small ceremony and bewildered locals watched their flags get replaced.    

Resistance was non-existent.

Only one town had bothered to fight back, and it wasn’t much of a fight. They managed about twelve seconds of organised resistance, two minutes of unorganised resistance and the rest of the afternoon was just convincing them to come down from the trees.

Surprise had been total. No Gertrudian could believe that anyone would knowingly invade their poverty-stricken countryside.  

“Must be about the taxes,” they reasoned.

What few watchtowers were still standing were deserted, save for the occasional homeless community. These were quickly declared conquered by Salak.   

Regardless, Kopek took no chances. The Talmut light cavalry, amongst the best in the world, had rounded up any and all Gertrudian fugitives and herded them back into the towns, which were then garrisoned. At this rate, Gertrudia would be finding out about the invasion around the same time it was knocking on their front door.

“How much longer?” said Salak, gesticulating, “how much longer until we arrive at the mighty den of thieves? How much longer until the day of ultimate reckoning?”

Kopek tilted his head. “Your excellency?”

Salak sighed. “How much longer until we arrive at Gertrudia?”

“Our forward scouts have already sighted the city. Our vanguard should arrive shortly, then we can establish a…”

“Excellent!” thundered Salak. He glared defiantly in the direction he presumed Gertrudia to be. “And how long until my army stands fully formed before their walls?”

“Three days,” said Kopek. “Though there may be…”

“Outstanding,” said Salak. “The journey may not have been easy, but the rewards shall make every step worth its weight in gold.”

“Yes, your excellency.”

The journey certainly hadn’t been easy. Getting thousands of soldiers, auxiliaries, camp followers and a huge supply train from one place to the other was never easy. The convoy of secret weapons made it even harder.

Also not helping was the laughable Gertrudian infrastructure. The roads, where there were roads, had more potholes than pavement. Pontoon bridges had to be constructed over every river and creek. Engineers were working overtime just to keep the huge army moving. They worked tirelessly, but the army still moved no faster than a crawl. 

The Prince, who didn’t have to deal with any of these problems, was in good spirits. 

“Simply magnificent.” He beamed at his muddy, miserable army. “By the love and grace of Sasha, our crusade is blessed and our glory ensured.” 

Down below, a wagon’s wheel had sunk into the mud. A hapless group of infantry and attendees were trying to dislodge it, with little success. A queue quickly formed behind them.

“Move it you idiots!” shouted someone.

“What do you think we’re trying to do?” shouted back someone else.

“Move it properly then!” shouted back the first someone.

They pushed and shoved and shouted at each other, but the wagon didn’t budge. A squadron of cavalry decided they had no time for this and went around. They jeered at the infantry as they filed past.

“Why don’t you mount your horses?”

The infantry shouted the same thing back at them.

Salak didn’t appear to notice any of this. “Do you know why this is so important?”

Kopek stared at the caught wagon. “This, your excellency?”

“All before you,” said Salak, he spread his arms, indicating his large, currently road blocked, army, “this sight, what is so important about it?” Before Kopek could say something stupid, Salak answered his own question. “This is unity. All the forces of the Talmut Empire coming together to fight the common foe. This is a clear demonstration of the power of our combined wills, the strength of our common dream…”

“Dream, your excellency?”

“The dream to be free of Gertrudian chains!” said Salak. He resisted the urge to reach out and smack the General again. “To live in peace, without fear of transgression. What else could have brought this all together?”

“The Royal Decree for Mobilisation?”

Salak shook his head. Purest ignorance. “Spirit, General! Spirit! Their devotion to Kobe and the new ways have brought them here. Think of it! Elves and men, divided by petty history uniting for the common good of destroying Gertrudia.”

“Yes, your excellency.”  

The Prince’s words did have an air of truth to them. Mostly hot air, but air all the same. The assembled army was greatly diverse. Its core was made up of Talmut elves, the majority of whom were mounted. Their numbers had been bolstered by levies from almost every Talmut city and town.

In addition to that, the other four kingdoms of Kobe, each a vassal of the Talmut Empire, had sent their own contribution to Salak’s army.

The elves of the Kermish tribes, renowned for their mighty war elephants, had sent light cavalry and infantry. The proud men of Jargot, somewhat less proud since their forcible inclusion into the Talmut Empire, had sent numerous battalions of heavy infantry. The Kingdom of Kotar, home of the finest archers in all of Kobe, had sent a squadron of wagons. And finally, the men of Homish, masters in the art of military organisation, had sent no one, citing logistical issues.

Kopek would have liked more time to better organise his multinational army for the coming months of campaigning, and maybe even devise a plan of attack more intricate than ‘move forward’, but Salak had been adamant. The army set off the very day he had meant it to.

“Truly a sight to behold,” said the Prince. Someone down below cursed loudly as his shoe came apart in the mud. “Nothing can stand in the way of God’s own heralds. We shall strike that foul city. Like lightning from a cloudless sky.”     

“Your Excellency…”

“Truly magnificent,” said Salak, he pulled on his reigns, “all the same General, push them and keep pushing them. Every moment we delay, we delay destiny.”

“Yes, your Excellency.”

Kopek watched Salak canter away, watery sludge splashing in his wake. Now alone, the General took the opportunity to observe the latest additions to the Talmut Empire. He didn’t much care for what he saw. Kopek had campaigned in Trodel before, and the other kingdoms were nothing like this.

In Gertrudia, the trees were shrivelled, leafless and blighted. The grass was brown. The sky was dark. The land felt dead, and the nightmare only worsened as they strayed deeper and deeper into Gertrudian territory.

Was this place cursed? Was it some sort of strategy to keep out invaders, by making the land as unappealing as possible? What was wrong with this place?

No matter. He couldn’t dwell on it. There was still much to organise. If the vanguard was having trouble moving forward, Kopek dreaded to think how the siege and baggage trains were faring.

Salak’s personal baggage, which consisted of seventy wagons and carriages packed with personal effects as well as a small army of artisans, city planners, poets and dancers that Salak had seen fit to bring along on his campaign. They had been given priority placement, meaning that they would be arriving in camp long before the siege weapons and food would be.        

Down below, the road blocking cart was finally moving. As it rolled free, a ragged cheer went up, and then immediately back down again as one of the wagon wheels came loose. It crashed back into the bog.

Kopek sighed.

This would be a long campaign.

Chapter Four – The Fire      

Gertrude scribbled away at her writing desk. She was answering a letter. A damp, slimy letter that looked like it had come straight out of a swamp, which was unsurprising. It had come straight out of a swamp.  

 Unlike the host of other things which demanded her immediate attention, Gertrude was giving this filthy swamp letter her immediate attention. It was about her family, and a rather sticky situation they had blundered themselves into.

Some time ago, Emperor Varus, previous ruler of the Gertrudian Empire, and Gertrude’s dad, had received some distressing news. A tribe of frog like creatures, imaginatively named the ‘Froggers’, had migrated into Gertrudian territory, and were setting up shop in one of the local swamps.

A Gertrudian swamp.

The swamp was worthless, but this invasion was a serious blow to what little remained of Gertrudia’s prestige.

Emperor Varus ordered the Froggers to leave at once. They promptly didn’t. Varus was furious. It was one thing to be pushed around by other kingdoms, but being strongarmed by a group of overgrown frogs was not a humiliation he could stomach.

Something had to be done!   

He quickly mustered a small army and set out to destroy them.      

It was all very exciting. Gertrudia hadn’t attacked anything in years, much preferring to hide in their cities, which was hardly the stuff of legends. This was an adventure!  A hail to the good old days! Crowds lined the streets, cheering the soldiers as they marched to glory.

Varus was confident of victory. He was so confident that he even brought his family along to witness it. Froggers typically stood at about half the height of a human, with sharp sticks being their weapon of choice. As a military threat, they weren’t taken very seriously. Several thousand of them, however, ambushing you in the thick of a swamp, could be very serious indeed.

Emperor Varus found this out the hard way.

Meanwhile, Gertrude wasn’t with them. She was back home in Gertrudia for the simple reason that no one could convince her to spend a weekend in a swamp, promises of a military victory against a bunch of frogs notwithstanding.  

She was still awaiting her father’s glorious return when a battered soldier showed up with a very damp letter, much like the one she had now. The message consisted of the word ‘ribbit’, written several hundred times. Translation revealed it was a ransom note. One hundred and fifty thousand golden monies or she would never see her family again. 

“One hundred and fifty thousand golden monies!?” said Gertrude. It was, appropriately enough, a King’s ransom. “We’ll never be able to afford all that!”

This pessimism was completely justified. That kind of money could have built a large palace, or a small city. Gertrude, within several minutes of inheriting her father’s penniless domain, realised she had little hope of ever paying it, even after she selflessly sold off all of her family’s possessions.   

So, nothing happened. The Imperial Ministry, who had been left in charge for the duration of the Emperor Varus’s Frog campaign, now handed power over to the only living member of the Royal Family, not currently held in frog captivity: Gertrude. The same Gertrude who had recently, and very reluctantly, opened the latest dirty swamp letter.

            Ribbit Ribbit Ribbit! Ribbit – ribbit ribbit!

The Froggers weren’t happy. Gertrudia was behind on their ransom instalments. Again. Quill in hand, Gertrude prepared a response: 

Ribbit: ribbit ribbit,

Ribbit ribbit ribbit ribbit ribbit, ribbit ribbit ribbit ribbit ribbit ribbit. Ribbit ribbit ribbit, ribbit ribbit ribbit. Ribbit – ribbit ribbit ribbit.

Ribbit ribbit

Gertrude (ribbit).        

Not the most original story, but enough to distract them for another week. She sealed the letter and tossed it in her out tray. That was one thing done, at least. Gertrude had barely a moment’s satisfaction before the throne room doors creaked open. The Minister entered. He wasn’t alone.          

“Your highness…” His voice was lifeless and his movements listless. “I have the…duty of presenting…” 

“HI GERTRUDE!” The shrill voice bounced around the room. “How are you!?”

The woman standing next to the Minister waved her hands frantically over her head in greeting.

Gertrude sighed. “Hello, Brambles…”

The woman, Brambles, beamed. She bounded up to the writing desk and slammed her hands down on it.

“How’s it going!?” She leaned right up to Gertrude’s face. “How is everything? How’s the family? How’s the kingdom? How are you?”

The Minister winced. The simplest peasant could have told you this was not how you addressed a member of the Royal Family. The simplest peasant, but not Brambles.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day outside?” Brambles continued, uninvited, “apart from the dark clouds and rain, I mean? Apart from that, it’s simply beautiful! I can’t believe you’re staying in all day to work.” She smiled wide at Gertrude, who stared right through her. “By the way, how are you?”

“I am fine.”

“How are things?’

“They are fine.”

“How’s the princess thing working out?”

“It is fine.”

“That’s great to hear!” said Brambles. The words double timed it out of her mouth. “Isn’t it a wonderful day?”

Gertrude massaged her forehead. “Sure…”

“I’m so surprised you would spend it inside,” continued Brambles, “there so much to do and see out there. You won’t see much trapped in this room. We should go out some time. I could show you everything. This morning, before I came here, I saw the most amazing thing ever. I saw the sun rising, it was only for a few seconds, but to see the light spreading across the…”

Gertrude reached into her desk and pulled out the bottle. She poured a glass and waited for it all to end.

“…so I went looking for one, and there were plenty on the south side, or was it the west side? I can never remember because the directions keep changing when I turn around…”

Brambles was, in Gertrude’s opinion, the worst thing to ever happen. 

“…so I went south for a bit and you’d never guess what I saw! Go on, guess!”  

She wasn’t from around here. She wasn’t even human. She was a fae something or other, in the employ of the Gertrudian Court as a Mystic.

“…under which there were more. It’s so nice that people still tend their gardens around here, even if you only grow potatoes…”

A Mystic was a lot like a soothsayer, except they were called Mystics. Emperor Varus, who kept his dream catcher next to his horoscope, underneath his lucky crown, believed that a fortune-teller could help restore his broken Empire.

“…these two dogs. They didn’t say much, but I didn’t expect them to, which is perfectly alright, because…”

He was almost right. Some Mystics were wise old sages and valuable fonts of information to any court that had the privilege of hosting them. Others were more like Brambles, who had told the Emperor, before he left on his doomed expedition, to expect a great victory. She neglected, however, to mention who the victory would be for.     

“…anyways, I didn’t really think he meant it, but he wouldn’t stop jumping up and down, holding those big gardening forks you guys like to use…”

Brambles had only been around for a matter of months. Her cheery face and bubbly personality quickly made her the most hated person in all Gertrudia.  

“…two of which were here and the other fifty of which were not, so I had to be creative and I twirled…”

The only reason Gertrude hadn’t fired, or murdered, her was because she was, very occasionally, useful, and accepted acorns as payment.

“…for what felt like hours, but probably wasn’t…”

Brambles loved life in the palace. She had always been enraptured by fairy tales and was delighted to be living in one. The fact that she worked for a bitter tyrant, who had all the personal warmth of a cannibalistic piranha did nothing to diminish her sickening enthusiasm.

“…and so I put them together like this,” said Brambles. She pointed to the daisy chain sitting on her head. “I thought it turned out great! Anyway, so the sun was going up, and I went looking for one, and there were plenty on the south side, or was it the west side? I can never remember, because the directions…”

“Brambles…” Gertrude held up a shaking hand, “while nothing in the world would please me more than hearing whatever the hell it is you’re talking about, I have brought you here with a very important assignment in mind.”

“Oh?” said Brambles, thankfully derailed, “how can I help?”

“You see,” said Gertrude, leaning back, “I find myself in a peculiar position…”

“Of course you do,” said Brambles, “you’re slumped in your chair.”

She chuckled at her own joke while Gertrude resisted the urge to throttle her.

“I’m in need of your talents,” Gertrude leaned in, conspiratorially. “Your special talents…”   

Brambles nodded her head in understanding. “Dancing.”

“No,” said Gertrude, “the other thing. The magic thing…”

“Dancing can be magical.”

“It’s not dancing you stupid…!”

Gertrude gritted her teeth and sat back down.

“The situation is this,” she continued, “the Empire is bankrupt and I’d rather it wasn’t. I have a family that has been repossessed, warehouses full of unsold goods and a war that is stopping anyone from buying them. What I need is for you to use your future vision gift… thing, and tell me when the idiotic standoff between Badenhop and Larrikin is going to end.” 

Brambles gave Gertrude a sympathetic look.

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t do that Gertie,” she said, (the Minister winced again), “though I hear the stars whisper above, I can only pass on what I am told.”

In other words, if you wanted to hear anything from Brambles, you had to hear everything from Brambles, something Gertrude was very keen on avoiding. “Can’t you just tell me about the parts that are relevant to me?”

“It doesn’t really work that way,” said Brambles, she took a deep breath, “you see, when you look into the future, its like grasping into the night, and…”

Gertrude sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. “So what do the stars say today?”

“Well!” Brambles lit up like a firework, “today, the stars predict you will be put to the test. When the hour is darkest, you will need to be its light, when hope has faded and the odds desert you, you will need to remain steadfast, but not if it is your undoing. Though the horizon darkens, light shines beyond, and it shines for you…”

Gertrude poured herself another glass. This was how the Mystic usually delivered her predictions, with about as much grace and precision as a blunderbuss filled with fertiliser.

“…to your island they shall come, across the seas shall they go, and there they shall breed fire and voice to distract giants…”

 To the untrained ear, most of it was garbage. To the perceptive listener, however, it was garbage with the occasional gem. Gertrude usually tuned out until something interesting was said. That could take a long time.

“It truly shall be a sight, when the future marches towards you. Remember, above all else, the past is as strong as the future, it is a mentor, a textbook, forever open to those who remember its pages…” 

A very, very long time.

The Minister glared at the floor. He had never cared for Mystics. All they ever did was misguide kings and trick plebs with long winded bouts of stylised gibberish. That, in his opinion, was the job of the Ministry.       

“Remember above all else,” continued Brambles, “to be yourself, to remain who you are, no matter what life throws at you, be yourself.”

Gertrude idly nodded her head.

“When the heavens weep, be yourself, when the lightning strikes, be yourself, when the waves are highest, be yourself, when the Talmut Empire launches an all-out ground offensive against Gertrudia, be yourself, when the abyss stares through you, be yourself, watch out for falling bits of masonry…”

Gertrude continued to nod her head. She was thinking about lunch. A selection of dates, perhaps? Maybe just a bowl of pears? Or even honey on bread. There wasn’t much of the stuff, not even in the palace, but if she had to listen to this nonsense, she felt she deserved a…

Her heart skipped a beat. “What was that last one?” 

“When the abyss stares through you, be yourself,” said Brambles. “In being yourself, your inner instinct…”

“What was that about a ground invasion?” said Gertrude, a little more urgently. She sat at the edge of her throne. The last prophecy had boiled down to ‘worry was a misuse of the imagination’. This one was slightly more on the nose.

Brambles, perplexed that Gertrude was more interested in national security than inner instincts, nevertheless answered. “According to the stars, the Talmut elves will commit their army, with vassal support, into an almighty attack against this city.” Gertrude looked at her with something between surprise and unflinching horror. The Mystic looked back. “It’s also going to rain.”

Gertrude, much like her city, was not ready for this news. “The elves are coming here?”

Brambles cheerfully nodded her head.

“Yes!”

“The elves from Kobe?”

“Yes!”

“The Talmut elves?”

“Yes!”

“The Talmut elves of the Talmut Empire who happen to have the largest and most powerful army on the planet?”

“That’s the one!” said Brambles, happy she could be so useful. “They’re on their way here now!”

Gertrude’s mouth tried to hit the floor. It remained stuck open as her thoughts untangled themselves. The elves were coming. The goddamn elves were coming! And not just any goddamn elves, the goddamn elves! The goddamn Talmut goddamnelves!

Regular elves were bad enough, but the Talmut elves? They were the most powerful, and therefore worst, of them. And they were coming here! Here!

“I can’t believe this,” said Gertrude, distantly, “I can’t believe this…”

“Yeah,” said Brambles, “I was quite surprised when I found out.”

“When you found…” Gertrude’s eyes narrowed. “When you found out?” A very dangerous crease appeared in her forehead. “And prey, dear of servant of mine, when did you find out?”

“This morning,” said Brambles, “when I dreamt it up.”

“This morning when you dreamt it up?” mimicked Gertrude. “How interesting…”

She advanced on Brambles, who stood where she was, apparently unconcerned that Gertrude’s hands had curled into fists, or that the Minister had disappeared behind a curtain.

“So, tell me, Brambles,” Gertrude wrapped her hands around the Mystic’s neck, “when exactly did you intend on telling me?”

Brambles, who didn’t seem particularly fazed about being strangled, smiled good-naturedly. “Telling you what?”

“About the invasion, you moron!” Gertrude shook the nonplussed Brambles backwards and forwards. “I don’t know if anyone has told you this, but being invaded by a foreign power, the biggest one that there is, for that matter, is something of a priority!”

“I know,” said Brambles, gazing into Gertrude’s dilated pupils, “that’s why I sent you the letter.”

“You…!” Gertrude froze, mid-scream. Bramble’s riposte had taken her entirely off guard. “What?”

“I thought it was very important,” said Brambles, “that’s why I wrote a letter about it. I gave it to one of those nice little men who do the post around here.”

“A letter?” said Gertrude.

“A letter,” said Brambles. “It was the one signed Brambles,” she added, helpfully.

Gertrude, her hands still aggressively clasped to Brambles, didn’t really know where to go from this point. Brambles offered her assailant a friendly pat on the shoulder.  

“Well then,” Gertrude awkwardly released Brambles, “I believe I owe you an apology.” She turned to the Minister, or rather the curtain he was behind. “If the Talmut Empire were to invade us, how long would it take them to get here?”

“Full mobilisation of their forces would take time, your highness,” said the Minister, reappearing, “if they were to muster today, they could be here in a matter of months. However…”

“A matter of months!?” said Gertrude, “that’s no time at all! This requires decisive action!”

Decisively, she did nothing. At least, nothing useful. She marched up and down the throne room, muttering, cursing, kicking, and trying to work this whole thing out in her head. “Why would they attack us? Who put them up to it? What have they got to gain?”

“If this is indeed an attack by the Talmut Empire,” said the Minister, “it is likely that Prince Salak will have ordered it. That of course would require you to believe…”

“Salak?” said Gertrude, incredulous “the puffin? He’s attacking us?” She shook her head. The situation has gone from bad to worse to embarrassing. “Why would that eyesore do this? What’s in it for him?” 

“Prestige, your highness,” said the Minister, “prestige. That is of course presuming that the Mystic isn’t…”

“Prestige?” said Gertrude. “Whaddya mean prestige?”

“As you recall, your highness, Prince Salak has assumed control of the Talmut Empire, following the death of his father, King Sabir, and the… passing of his brother. Given the disparity in popularity between Salak and his late brother, he is likely attempting to generate support for his regime through conquest of a hated enemy. He is here for the prestige of conquering Gertrudia.”

“He’s coming here for the prestige?” Gertrude looked around the empty throne room. “He hasn’t been keeping up with current events, has he?”

As per arrangement with the Froggers, the wider world had yet to learn that most of the Gertrudian Royal Family was currently prisoners in a swamp. Regardless, any fool could tell you that Gertrudia’s glory days were now confined to history books and cautionary tales.

“In our city’s defence, your highness,” said the Minister, “there is still some honour in its name. Might I remind you, your highness, that it has never fallen.”

“Except that one time,” said Gertrude.

“Except that one time,” said the Minister, “nevertheless, presuming this whole Talmut invasion is not merely the idle ravings of a madwomen,” he looked pointedly at Brambles, who was looking unpointedly out a window, “it would be a great symbolic victory for him and do much to solidify his rule.”

Gertrude snorted. “If that idiot wants prestige in Gertrudia, he’s going to have to bring it with him.” She stormed past her advisors and up to her desk, which she kicked. “Typical. Just typical. You think you’re as low as you can be, then it turns out that hell has its own basement.”

She scowled at the mountain of papers on her desk. Brambles, overflowing with empathy, came up behind her.  

“Gertrude,” she placed an unwelcome hand on Gertrude’s shoulder, “I can’t help but feel that this whole invasion thing has got you feeling down.”

“Nothing gets past you.” Gertrude swatted the hand away. “With that mind of yours, I’m surprised you yourself haven’t conquered the world.”

Brambles chuckled. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Great. Now be quiet.”   

“Would you like to read from this small book of calming poems?” Brambles produced a notebook from her robes.

“I’m illiterate.”

“Would you like me to serenade you with the song of my people?”

“I can honestly say I would rather die.”

“Would…”

“No.”

Brambles said some more things, but Gertrude didn’t listen. Instead, she sifted through the piles of paper that cluttered her desk, scattering them left and right. Eventually, she found what she was looking for, and held it up triumphantly.

The latest Ministry manifesto on Gertrudia’s defences. 

“According to this…” She quickly skimmed through the document. It wasn’t difficult. The manifesto consisted of one page and twelve words. “…The state of our defences are … unfavourable…” She turned the sheet over to see if there was anything on the other side. There wasn’t. “Evidently we are going to have to do something about that, preferably before the elves show up.” She turned to Brambles. “Incidentally, when can we expect their arrival?”

“Whose arrival?”

Gertrude massaged her forehead. “My husband to be. The freaking elves, dingus!”

Brambles smiled. “Oh, yeah, of course!”

“Oh, yes of course,” mimicked Gertrude, nastily. “We have much to prepare, and I would like to know exactly when they are going to arrive.”

“Preparations?” said Brambles. “What kind?”

“Wonderful, kind and friendly things,” lied Gertrude. She sat down on her throne. Already, she was contemplating all the evil things she could organise in the next few months. Burning crops, poisoning wells, leaving upturned nails on the roadways, that kind of thing. “I would show those dirt wastelanders the hospitality we afford scumbags of their calibre.” 

“Really?” said Brambles.

“Really,” said Gertrude, drily. “When they get here, I’ll give them a welcome they’ll never forget.”

“I’m sure they would appreciate that,” said Brambles. “You may wish to hurry though; they should be here any minute.” 

Gertrude’s heart, a poor suffering thing as of late, spasmed. The rest of Gertrude spasmed as well. “Any minute?”

“Yes!”

“They’re already here?”   

“Yes!”

“Right now?”

“Yes!”

“They, the invaders, the incredibly, indisputably powerful elves of Talmut, the ones here to ruin my life and ransack my home, are here, at this very minute, forgoing any chance I have whatsoever at preparing any form of defence?”

“Yes!”

Brambles smiled her happy, oblivious smile as Gertrude quietly made her way through the five stages of grief. A few silent moments went by.

“Of course they are,” Gertrude’s head slammed into her desk.

The Minister wrinkled his nose and stepped forward. Enough was indeed enough.  

“Your highness,” he said, importantly, “I hope you are not putting too much stock in the words of this…” he twirled his hand dismissively at Brambles, “…Mystic. Have you forgotten, your highness, that she is an idiot?”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” said Gertrude, “but she is an idiot that happens to be right about these kinds of things.”

“If your highness is referring to her predication regarding his majesty’s… expedition, then perhaps I might be permitted to draw attention to the fact that she was vague. Indirect.” He scoffed. “Such is the way of the fortune teller.” That was also the way of the Ministry, but he left that out. “You cannot trust her, nor rely upon her so called predications.” 

These were serious accusations. They implied fraud. Possibly treason. Brambles, however, didn’t respond to them. She was far too busy tracking the progress of a butterfly trapped up against the window.  

“If we had been invaded, your highness, would we not have heard of it by now?” The Minister moved towards the window. “Would scouts not have reported it? Would there not be refugees streaming over the hills?” He arrived at the window. “Come now, your highness, there really isn’t…”

His mouth remained open, but the words died on his lips. He stood paralysed.  

“Minister?” said Gertrude. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. “Minister…?”

No response. Gertrude rose from her throne and approached the Minister, who remained ramrod still. She had a terrible feeling she wasn’t going to enjoy the next couple of minutes. Sure enough, she didn’t.

As she came to the Minister’s side, she too glanced out the window. What she saw took a moment to come into focus, but when it did, it left a lasting impression. Time seemed to slow down and then stop entirely.

Elves.

Lots of elves.

More elves than Gertrude had ever seen. More than she knew existed. An army of them, marching along the road in an endless column of spears, flags, soldiers and horses, like a huge steely snake, slithering towards her.

The end of the world was coming. All the elves, and a few more by the looks of it, advancing with hostile intent. They were coming. They were coming for her.

And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Gertrude didn’t notice Brambles come up beside her. The Mystic was uncharacteristically silent, as was the Minister.

They stood.

They watched. 

They waited.

It was Gertrude who broke the silence.

“Fuck.” 

Chapter Five – The Beating of Minds

The elves were making camp. More specifically, the type of elves who couldn’t afford horses were making camp, while their officers shouted at them. Tents of varying size and quality popped up all along the Trodel mudscape. The clouds had mostly dissipated, and the land was enjoying a brief moment of it not raining.

Atop the battlements of Gertrudia’s outermost wall, Gertrude and her small entourage huddled around the tripod of a portable telescope.

“Well that’s a goddamn army alright…”

Gertrude panned the eyepiece from side to side. Wherever she looked there were more elves. Some made camp, some dug trenches and some rode around shouting things. It was a total mess of them, and every moment, another batch appeared over the horizon. 

More flags.

More spears.

More elves.  

“Just how many of these wastelanders are there going to be?” Gertrude backhanded the eyepiece. It spun around on the tripod. “There must be thousands of them!”

“Tens of thousands,” said the Minister, gravely.

“Thirty-eight thousand four hundred and twenty-two,” said Brambles.

The Minister pursed his lips together. “The stars tell you that?”

Brambles shrugged. “Who else?”

“Thirty-eight thousand!?” said Gertrude. The number bounced around in her head. “Thirty-eight thousand!?” She tried to digest the figure. It sat in her throat instead. Thirty-eight thousand! There was no such number! She rounded on the Minister. “And how many do we have?”    

“Your highness,” he said, “the Ministry has made several very recent consultations with the standing forces of the garrison and we are currently in the process of re-evaluating…”

“Minister,” said Gertrude, dangerously. “How. Many?”

The Minister cleared his throat. “Twelve.”

“Twelve?” said Gertrude. “Twelve what?”

The Minister awkwardly coughed into his hand. “Twelve soldiers.” 

If Gertrude had been drinking something, she might have spat it out. As it was, she just stared at him with intense incredulity.

“Wha…bu…tha…tha…” she articulated. “Twelve?” Her face turned red. “Twelve!?”

“I’m afraid that is all the Imperial approved defence budget could cover,” said the Minister, hastily. Even in times of imminent decimation by a foreign power, he had the reputation of his department to consider. “The cutbacks to the garrison were not advised by the Ministry. Alas, however, we were ultimately overruled by a higher authority.”

Gertrude thumped the crenulations with her fist. “And what idiot made that decision?” she barked.

Silence followed. It turned awkward as Gertrude realised the culprit of this supremely stupid decision happened to be her. She groaned and grabbed at her face as it all came flooding back to her. In her (very previous) opinion, the garrison had been a liability. Sure, they were the city’s principal defence force, but the city hadn’t been threatened in years. Who in their right mind would attack the city of the famous triple walls? 

All the garrison did was stand around and cost money. So what if there was a small budget cut here and there? A few months of this philosophy, and the Gertrudian garrison had not so much been cut down to the bone as the bone had been chipped away into a fine pin. Death by a thousand cutbacks. 

“The Ministry did propose cutbacks to the cutbacks,” said the Minister , helpfully. “And I’m sure your highness is familiar with…”

“Oh shut up!” snapped Gertrude, “I didn’t realise that it was this bad”. She looked out across the plains again. The elves were still there. “How am I supposed to fight a battle with twelve soldiers?”

“I would suggest that you don’t, your highness.”    

“So, fighting’s out then,” said Gertrude. “Unless…” She turned hopefully to Brambles. “Is there any chance you are familiar with… combat related magic?”

“Am I familiar with combated related magic?” Brambles chuckled, confidently. “No.”

Gertrude smacked her forehead. “So fighting’s out then. What are we going to do?”

In the distance, the elves were forming up. The ones on horses shouted orders and gestured about. The troops dropped whatever they were doing and marched into ranks.      

“What are they doing?” Gertrude grabbed the telescope and angled it. “They can’t be ready for an attack already?”

“Most likely not,” said the Minister. “It might be an honour guard for a dignitary’s arrival.”

“And what if it is an attack?” Gertrude didn’t need an answer. If the elves did attack, they wouldn’t need the world’s strongest army to overcome Gertrudia. Twenty halflings and a sturdy ladder would be enough. “We need to gather a force.” 

“Provisions for a militia have already been taken,” said the Minister. At least they would be when he sent out the orders. “It will take some time…”

“We don’t have some time,” said Gertrude. She looked back at her city. A mob of her subjects had been milling around the city gates, wondering what was going on. “Gather them up.”

“Your highness?”

“Them,” Gertrude pointed through a wall. “Send my guards down there and round up the toughest looking peasants you can find. Give them weapons and bring them up here.”

“Your highness, might I mention…”

“Do it!”

The Minister bowed. “At once, your highness.”

“Assembling your army?” said Brambles. She was fascinated by all this war stuff.  

“Hardly,” said Gertrude, “I want something that at least looks like an army to be standing up here. It’ll give the elves the mistaken impression that we can defend ourselves. It’ll do until the militia is organised.”

“Clever!” said Brambles. She watched the Minister depart with a few Hoglites. “Are you guys going to ride out and meet them?” 

“What?”

“You know, when you get your army together, are you going to lead them out there and face the other guys?”

Gertrude looked at Brambles as though she had sprouted another, even more annoying, head. “That is the exact opposite of my plan.”

“Isn’t that what you guys do around here?” said Brambles, “they show up with their army and you go out and get them with yours.”

“You want me to leave these walls and charge out in the open?” said Gertrude.

“Don’t you want to?”

Gertrude didn’t want to. “The only way I’m leaving these walls is if someone pushes me off them. Secondly, I’m no general, but facing a huge professional army with a ragtag bunch of peasants armed with whatever happens to be lying around doesn’t strike me as the sensible military strategy.” 

Brambles was confused. The fairy tales she liked to read had not prepared her for the rigours of modern warfare. She also didn’t know what a strategy was. She asked Gertrude, who responded by pretending to be deaf.

The Minister eventually returned. The Hoglites had rounded up a group of citizens who took places along the highest wall. They were scrawny, sickly and in many cases, shifty. Drunks, gamblers, pickpockets, prostitutes and assorted criminal scum. An average cross section of any Gertrudian town.

In the face of the dreaded Talmut Army, the Gertrudian pre-militia quickly went to work. Dice were thrown, cards were dealt, and someone organised the odds for how the elves would attack and when the city would fall. Others decided not to give into to traditional Gertrudian vices, much preferring to panic.  

“Why would they attack us?” said the local blackmailer, “we’d never harm anyone who could fight back.”

“Beats me,” said a prostitute, “did we screw them over recently?”

“Did we screw them over?” said a priest, “is the sun hot?”

Everyone shared a nervous chuckle. 

Gertrude looked over her loyal subjects, not bothering to disguise her disappointment.

“Is this the best you could do?” she hissed into the Minister’s ear.   

“Your highness,” he said, “these brave members of the noble Gertrudian peasantry have come, with but the lightest of encouragement, ready to risk life and limb for the good of the…”   

“I see,” said Gertrude. “Any particular reason they are all armed with broomsticks?”

“With utmost resourcefulness, your highness, they were able to reconstitute the contents of a nearby warehouse into fighting provisions,” said the Minister. “It may not look like much, but these broomsticks may very well be the salvation of…”

“Good God,” groaned Gertrude, “I asked for the roughest men in the city and you delivered me a rabble of janitors.”

“They are ready to die for their city,” said the Minister.

“If there’s a fight today, they’re going to,” said Gertrude. “You might at least tell them to sharpen their sticks.”

“An inspired decision, your highness.”

“Oh shut up,” snapped Gertrude. A cloud of dust, kicked up in the distance, caught her eye. “What now?” She peered back into the telescope. A large squadron of cavalry were galloping towards the walls.

“Is the attack happening?” said Brambles, she leaned over the crenellations for a better view.

“I don’t think so,” Gertrude focused the telescope on the approaching invaders and cocked an eyebrow at what she saw. “Guys, I could be wrong about this, but I think we’re about to be visited by the local circus.”  

#

Salak’s party slowed to a halt atop a mild ridge. They were a hundred metres before Gertrudia’s outermost wall, and the ditch before it. The Prince admired the towering monstrosities. Impressive, certainly more impressive than the people he imagined were defending them. How those rats must be shivering in their boots!   

“Magnificent are they not?”

“Yes, your excellency,” said Kopek, who was also there. 

With exaggerated flair, the Prince motioned one of his adjutants forward. This elf wore a robe, very similar to the one on Brambles. His was purple with a leather belt and a golden sash. This was a mage, a caster of magic.

Magic was an interesting thing in the three continents, except when it wasn’t. Usually it wasn’t. Sure, there were certain individuals blessed with the power to shoot fire from their fingertips or blast lightning out of their nostrils. They usually became bodyguards or assassins. Indeed, three of Salak’s personal bodyguards had such fascinating powers. 

For the most part, however, mages were simply people born with mundane, if supernatural, powers. You might wake up one day and discover you had the power to float three feet up in the air, smell triangles, or that other people’s voices became twenty times louder when they spoke into your left hand.

That last one was exactly the power of this particular mage. He had been noticed and now stood as the royal speaking trumpet. It wasn’t a very romantic office, but certainly better paying than his previous job of manufacturing buckets.

The purple mage cracked his fingers and offered his left hand to Salak. The Prince, with some theatrics, took hold of it, positioned it just under his mouth and spoke: 

“Masters of Gertrudia!” His voice boomed across the field, twenty times louder than usual. “To the dwellers of your city! To the last remnants of your Empire, we come in the name of reason to discuss your acceptance of the inevitable!”

No reply came.

“Through Sasha’s mercy,” continued Salak, “I am prepared to offer this city three full days of peace, that they might come to their senses and lay down their arms peacefully. Following this demonstration of good will, all persons willing shall be allowed to leave with their possessions, unmolested. Otherwise, should Sasha’s sacred mercy be denied, no mercy but that of a conquering army shall be offered.”

Salak didn’t expect the Gertrudians to accept these terms. In fact, he was quietly counting on it. If they simply gave the city without a fight, it would be a rather lame way to end this heroic story. God, however, required him to ask, so ask he did.  

He placed his hands upon his hips, in manner he hoped conveyed authority. “What say you?”

More silence.

The assembled Talmut Army listened in. With Salak’s mage, it was hard not to. Most of Gertrudia also listened in, just as the Prince had intended. What the Prince didn’t intend, however, was pretty much everything that happened after this point. 

“Who are you?” called someone from the walls. They amplified their voice by way of cupping their hands around their mouth and shouting.

Salak kicked himself. He had forgotten to introduce himself! He recovered quickly and puffed out his chest.

“I am Prince Salak, ruler of the Talmut Empire, master of Kobe, the uniter of elves and men, conqueror of nations and messenger of God. Who are you?”

“I’m Gertrude,” said Gertrude, “whadda-ya want?”

Salak blinked. He had envisioned this conversation, this moment, in a thousand idle fantasies. In precisely zero of these fantasies did anyone ever say: ‘whadda-ya’.

“Gertrude?” he said. He pushed the mages hand away and turned to his retinue. “Who the hell is Gertrude?”

His outfit looked at one another. Who the hell was Gertrude?

One adjutant spoke up. “There is a Princess Gertrude,” he said, pleased to be helpful, “youngest daughter of Emperor Varus, your excellency.”

Salak gave the adjutant a dubious frown. “A daughter of the Emperor, up on the wall shouting at us like a common street crier?” The adjutant sank saddle as Salak shook his head, dismissively. “I know they are men, but give them some credit.” He turned back to the walls and lifted the mages hand. “You have our demands” he said, voice amplified again, “and you have our word. Deliver both to your master, Emperor Varus, and we might settle this without bloodshed. We await your answer.”

A few seconds past. A voice cried out. “Give us a moment!”

Salak rolled his eyes. These Gertrudians were worse than his dunderheaded General. He hoped they would put up some fight. It would seem a shame to have gone to all the trouble of dragging his army here only to take the city without a little bloodshed.

It would be a sad way to close the book on Gertrudia. A viper’s nest like that should go out in flames, not whimper itself into nothingness. Then again, thought the Prince as he scanned the walls with his spyglass, a whimper might be all these Trodel-Borns could give him.   

#

Back on the walls, nothing was happening. Gertrude alternated between being angry with the elves and being angry with everyone else.

“Let’s say they storm us at this very moment,” Gertrude paced back and forward, in front of her telescope, “what exactly could we do to stop them?”

“Very little,” conceded the Minister, “however, your highness, they will likely not attack for another three days, regardless of how poorly defended the city might appear.”

“They could take the city armed with nothing more than rocks and their superiority complex,” said Gertrude. “It’s a damn good thing they are just as incompetent as we are, or we’d be in some serious trouble.”

“It’s not incompetence, your highness,” said the Minister, “to the men and elves of Kobe, Sasha’s mercy is of supreme religious importance. According to their God, no person should be harmed if it can be avoided, therefore, before an attack on any fortified town, said town should be offered the chance to peacefully evacuate.”

Gertrude cocked an eyebrow. “And they’ll actually uphold it?”  

“I believe so, yes,” said the Minister. “It would be most damaging to our Prince’s reputation if he disregarded such a sacred decree.”

“So if we leave the city in the next three days, they’ll just let us?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Then what?”

“They take the city, your highness.”

“And us?” said Gertrude.

“Our situation will be much as before, your highness,” said the Minister, “but we won’t be butchered when the city is taken.”

Gertrude pondered this concept of peaceful resolution. “What a load of rubbish.”

“I think it’s very kind of them,” said an old woman, part of the impromptu militia. She used her broomstick to sweep the filth from one part of the ramparts to another. “A lot of people don’t ask you to leave before they try and murder you. This young man must be very cultured.”

“He’s neither a man nor cultured,” said Gertrude, turning on the interjector, “he’s here to take our city, you old fool.”

“I’m not sure, Gertrude,” said Brambles, contributing, “do you see how purple his clothes are? He must be very cultured.”

“He’s pretty damn optimistic if he thinks we’re taking his offer,” said Gertrude.  

“What’s wrong with it?” said Brambles.

“What’s wrong with it!?” said Gertrude, “if we leave, what happens when they follow? Are we just going to be politely kicked out of every one of our strongholds until the whole Empire is camped outside Volkst?” 

“Well,” said the old woman, still sweeping “I still think it’s a nice gesture.”

The old woman’s son, standing next to her, gave Gertrude an apologetic look. “She’s getting a bit on in years,” he said, as he opened someone else’s coin purse. “She means well.”

Gertrude rolled her eyes. She was surrounded by elves, idiots and combinations thereof. It was hard to strategise when distracted by such plebs.

“I can’t help but notice you’re not exactly on board with talking to Prince Say-Lack,” said Brambles, “is there something about him you don’t like?”

Gertrude glared at Brambles. The impending threat of death had been monetarily eclipsed by the Mystic’s latest bout of insanity. “You can’t be serious. He’s a pompous, idiotic glory hound who has invaded my Empire and promises to kill everyone in the city, and myself, if I don’t unconditionally surrender it.”

Brambles considered the point. “Well, no one’s perfect.”

“Shut up,” said Gertrude. “He’s wasting my time with all this peace talk, and his own for that matter. Does he really think he’s going to get prestige in this place? Why doesn’t he go and invade a proper Kingdom?”

“Be that as it may, your highness,” said the Minister, he nodded towards the waiting Prince, “perhaps we should prepare a response.”

“I’ll give him a response alright,” huffed Gertrude. She turned to her Hoglite bodyguards. “You, the one with the crossbow. Come here a minute…” 

“A diplomatic response is preferable,” said the Minister. “Might I remind your highness that an attack on the envoys of Sasha’s mercy does forfeit their three days of truce?”

“Ah, of course,” Gertrude waved away the approaching soldier. “You’re right, Minister. By respecting these foreign traditions, we shall do a much better job of exploiting them.”   

“Indeed, your highness.” 

“Now then, three days…” said Gertrude. Her mind went to its nasty place, one certainly not lacking for real estate. “What awful things could we do to them in three days?”

“You could offer to talk about it?” said the old woman.

Gertrude looked at her, offended. “Excuse me?”

“It would be a decent thing to do.”

Gertrude neither knew, nor gave a damn, what decency dictated she should do. “Be quiet, you old crone, or you’ll be asked to leave. I need a moment to think.” 

The old woman got on with her sweeping while Gertrude thought of ways to destroy her enemies with a religious loophole. 

#

“I have no idea, your excellency.”

“General, you are my military expert. I expect an answer.”

“Yes, your excellency.”

The General peered into his eyepiece, again. At this distance, he could make out the heads of the defenders, bobbing here and there, behind their crenellations. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t answer the Prince’s question. 

“Your excellency, the best I could say is that they are all carrying some form of crudely made javelins.”

“Just one per man?” said Salak. He was also looking into his eyepiece. “I’m no expert, but shouldn’t they have more?”  

“They are not long enough to be spears, your excellency,” said Kopek, “it is likely they will hurl them before switching to another weapon.”

“I see,” said Salak. “Any particular reason they are holding them upside down?”

Kopek couldn’t answer that.

“Perhaps they don’t wish us to see their shoddy craftsmanship!” said one of Salak’s entourage. The Prince gave a hearty laugh. The others joined in.

“Do you still believe this hive invincible?” said Salak to Kopek. The laughter died out. “Do you think this motley crew of barbarians can stand against us?” 

“The walls are formidable, your excellency.”

“With who to defend them?” said Salak. For whatever reason, the Gertrudians had bunched all of their defenders on the lowest wall, leaving the other two undefended. There couldn’t have been more than two hundred of them.  

“They will likely summon a militia to supplement the present garrison, your excellency.”

“Humph!” Salak turned to his companions. “The only difference that will make is how many cowards will beg us for mercy!”     

            Another round of laughter, followed by applause.  

            It was more than a joke. Salak couldn’t see anyone wanting to fight for this godless place, let alone die for it. No, it wouldn’t be very Gertrudian to die for anything. Bargain for something, sure. Kill for something, certainly, but die for something? It would go against their way of life, which consisted mostly of theft, indulgence, scams and being hated.

            Let’s see them scam their way out of this, thought Salak. He drummed his fingers against his gem encrusted saddle. A few minutes passed. Then a few minutes more. What little light there was started to fade. How long could they take? He gestured for his mage.

            “What is taking you so long?” Salak’s voice boomed across the plains. “Has your Emperor something more important to attend to?”

            His retinue chuckled obligingly.

            “We have our response ready,” called back Gertrude.

            “Very well, and how does your Emperor reply to our most generous offer?”

            “He says he’d like to think about it. We’ll talk in three days.”

            Salak hesitated. He had expected a grovelling yes or a defiant no. He had no response planned for a tentative ‘come back later’.  

            “And how comes this hesitation?” said Salak, improvising, “does your Emperor see the might of the Talmut and quiver himself into indecision?”

“Sure.”

“Ha! You admit it then?”

“Whatever.”

“Well, um,” Salak, despite having the complete upper hand, couldn’t help but feel he had lost control of it. “In that case, we shall return in three days. To bring mercy…or death.”

“Okay.”

Salak wavered at the lame response, but then pivoted his horse and cantered away with what dignity he could muster. His retinue followed. The Prince kept his head held high as he re-entered camp, and passed through his throngs of followers.  He tried to convince those present, and himself, that he had just conducted a masterstroke of diplomatic negotiation.

This could be smoothed over, he thought to himself. He waved regally at his troops, who respectfully bowed. Occasions of this calibre deserved a little embellishment. After all, this was history they were talking about. Royal history. It needed to be told properly, without bumbling commoners interfering with its brilliance.

Salak smiled.

Emperor Varus should have personally answered his call, with grace, dignity and an appropriate amount of fear.

And that’s what would be remembered.

Chapter Six – Decisive In Action

“We might evacuate,” offered the Minister.

“Evacuate?” said Gertrude. “The whole city?”

“Certain sections of it,” said the Minister. He admired his fingertips. “This room specifically…”

Gertrude gave him a dry look. “That’s your plan? The three of us just cut and run like thieves in the night?”

“Of course not, your highness,” said the Minister, appalled. He cupped a hand over his mouth and leaned towards Gertrude. “We wouldn’t have to bring the Mystic.” 

A few hours had passed since the royal parley with Prince Pompous. Returning to the palace, Gertrude and her advisors had been hard at work, failing to come up with a plan to save the city. As expected, the Minister’s contributions were of a very practical nature.

“I understand that there will be some reservations amongst those left to die, but we must ask ourselves, does a hero ever truly die? More importantly, at what point does the Royal Family stop fretting over the needs of the common man and start thinking about the larger picture, to quote the founder of this great city…”

“Oh, shut up,” said Gertrude. “I like to think I have made my position quite clear. We are not leaving the greatest defences in the world so we can go die somewhere else.”

“But your highness,” said the Minister, “the city of Salop is both fortified and stationed on a nearby island. Our fleet still possesses many ships, tens of which are still serviceable. We could easily steal away there and hold out.”

“Hold out? For how long?”

“Until the Talmut Empire modernises its fleet.”

Gertrude shook her head. “It’s not happening. Not now. Not ever.”

She meant it too. One might wonder why someone like Gertrude felt the need to defend the land she hated so stubbornly. Be rest assured, there was a perfectly selfish reason for it all.

When Gertrude was twelve years old, her parents gave her a small faux-golden harp, which she was made to practice with every day. She hated it. She hated playing it. She hated listening to it. She hated listening to herself play it (quite a few people hated listening to her play it). After each and every practice, she would murmur and mutter about how much she wished the stupid little harp would break in two. Then, one day, just as harp practice was due to begin, she was surprised to find it had been broken in two. Prince Henry, an older brother, was the culprit. Gertrude was furious. She demanded an apology, as well as a replacement. He refused.

“You didn’t even like playing it,” he said, “you were always going on about how much you wanted it to break.” Impervious to this sensible argument, Gertrude repeated her demand. “Anyway, I don’t have to apologise,” said Henry, leaning over her. “It was an accident. That means I don’t owe you anything.”

Gertrude glared at him. Something vicious bubbled behind her eyes. Then, without saying anything, she pouted and marched away. The matter seemed settled.

Later that night, the palace awoke to sound of breaking glass. Someone had hurled a brick through Prince Henry’s window. Tied to the brick was a message. It said: ‘whoops’.

Gertrude would never abandon the city. She hated Gertrudia. She hated living in Gertrudia. She hated ruling Gertrudia. She hated living in Gertrudia while she ruled it. All the same, she would sooner die than hand it over to someone else who clearly wanted it.

“We’re staying.” Gertrude folded her arms. “This may be a worthless city, but it is my worthless city. If he wants it, he can have it over my dead body.”

The matter was concluded. They would fight to the petty end.

            The Minister bowed, stiffly. “As you command, your highness.”

Gertrude could see that the Minister was unhappy about her decision to stay. Fortunately, that was his problem. “Now then,” she clapped her hands, “I understand that the desert scum have an army and we don’t. I feel our first order of business should be to remedy this.”

“Very true, your highness,” said the Minister. “We shall need to reinstate the garrison, assemble and arm a militia, then appoint a General to organise and command both.”

“What’s a mal-ish-ah?” said Brambles.

“A flail of desperation,” said Gertrude. A militia was like an army, except it usually operated without training, uniforms, weapons or competence. In the Gertrudian Army, their duties usually consisted of standing around, guarding mud, devouring rations and getting killed. “Will anyone actually sign up for service?”

“It won’t be a problem, your highness,” said the Minister, “the Ministry is, as always, one step ahead. With the implementation of the Compulsory Volunteers Program, we shall neatly avoid the oppressive red tape of free will.”    

“Conscripts?”

“Compulsory Volunteers, your highness.”

“Uh-huh,” said Gertrude, “can we rely on them?”

“Of course, your highness.”

They could be relied upon to be, at best, second rate troops and at worse, less than worthless. The Minister kept that to himself.   

“Very well,” said Gertrude. “Do you have anyone in mind to lead the dead man’s march?”  

“There is one man that sticks out,” rather like a sore thumb, thought the Minister. “A veteran officer, Rost, who served in three separate campaigns during the last century. He was present at the battles of Gemlik, Keflen and Desaard.”        

“He won those battles?”

“He was present at them,” said the Minister. “I would consider General Rost the most suitable applicant.”

“Why?”

“Because he is the only applicant,” said the Minister. “Talented individuals tend to leave for pastures greener. Others by contrast, have died. General Rost remains the only senior officer in the entire city, albeit retired.”

Gertrude grumbled her reluctant assent. She didn’t know what else to do. Military matters had never interested her and she was eager to hand these responsibilities over to someone else.    

“He may have several eccentricities,” continued the Minister, cocooning the words in honey, “but I still think he can bring some organisation to our standing forces.”

“Eccentricities?”

“Sometimes, and very occasionally, he doesn’t know where he is going,” said the Minister, “or where he has been, or for that matter, where he is. It certainly undermined our efforts at Keflen. We may need to keep these factors in mind.”

“Oh splendid,” said Gertrude. “A lost General for a lost cause.”

When it rains.

“There is just one other thing,” said the Minister, not at all finished with the bad news, “I’m afraid that General Rost is very much of the old school in terms of military application.”

“Meaning?”

“I can’t vouch for his current capabilities.”

“You couldn’t vouch for his previous capabilities.”

“There are other affairs to take care of,” said the Minister, “we shall have to arrange for the fleet to start bringing in supplies and, hopefully, reinforcements. The Ministry shall organise that.”

At least the elves hadn’t blockaded them, not that that was on the books for the Talmut Navy. Their smaller ships were designed for merchant escort and coastal protection.  Besides which, Prince Pratface hadn’t brought any with him. At least there would be no blockade f the harbour.

“So you’ll organise the General, the militia, the reinstitution of the garrison and the resupply of the city?” said Gertrude, counting the jobs off on her fingers. “Excellent. I’m fairly sure that covers everything.”

“What of your friends?” said Brambles. The colouring in book Gertrude had given the Mystic to keep her quiet had run out of pages.

            “What friends?” Gertrude wasn’t aware she had any friends, and certainly wasn’t open to the idea when Brambles was around. “Who are you talking about?”     

“You know,” said Brambles, “the Oak Tree Club.”

Gertrude rolled her eyes. “The Oaken Tree Alliance,” she said, “what of it?”

“They’re your friends, right?”

“They’re our allies,” said Gertrude, “what of it?”

 “Well…” said Brambles, “Why don’t you ask them to help?”

Gertrude tilted her head to one side. “Help what?”

“You know,” said Brambles, “for the big battle at the end. Why don’t you ask your ally friends to send their armies to help you out?”

Gertrude’s confusion transformed into something between disbelief and annoyance.

“You expect the all the kingdoms of Trodel to put aside their many, many, differences and unite against the Talmut Empire, an Empire which has smashed every army ever sent against it, all for the sake of saving a pauper’s Empire that was built upon their misery,” said Gertrude. “For free.”

“Yeah,” said Brambles, “I know you all have history, but don’t you think that your friends will see past that and band together for the greater good?”

“Brambles,” said Gertrude, after she was finished laughing, “I need you to understand that even if everyone else on Trodel drank exclusively from the milk of human kindness, it would take a lot more than that to make up for our colourful history with them.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure…” said Brambles, with a knowing wink.

“I bloody would,” said Gertrude.

The Gertrudian Empire had once consisted of the entire world, the rest of Trodel included. Life as a Gertrudian vassal had its ups and downs, specifically, the Gertrudians hefted themselves up while keeping everyone else down. Centuries of tyranny, exploitation and degradation could not be so easily forgotten. And it wasn’t.

Gertrude could see that Brambles was still not convinced. She looked like a confused puppy that believed in hope, or something. Sensing this to be a possible sticking point, Gertrude turned to the Minister.     

“Tell me Minister,” said Gertrude, mimicking Bramble’s cheerful tone, “can we rely on the other members of the Okie Dokie Alliance Club coming to save us from the most powerful army of wastelanders to ever grace this continent?”

 “Yes and no, your highness,” said the Minister, “mostly no. I am sure they will be more than happy to send their deepest sympathies and will certainly be united in their strong condemnation of this unprovoked attack. This condemnation will likely stop very short of sending any actual aid or troops.”    

Gertrude turned back to the Mystic, smugly vindicated. “You see? We’re going to die.”

“So they wouldn’t help you at all?” said Brambles, confused.

“Under select circumstances, they would be happy to help,” said the Minister .  

“Select circumstances?”

“What I mean to say is that if the circumstances were favourable,” said the Minister. “Overwhelmingly favourable. I am sure if we were likely to win anyway, they would be more than happy to lend their assistance.”  

“So,” said Brambles, her thoughts assembling, “what you have is a bunch of alliances where you will come to each other’s aid, but only if you don’t actually need it?”

“Yes,” said Gertrude and the Minister.  

“What about the idea of helping out a friend in need?” said Brambles. “What about doing the right thing?”

The Minister looked appalled. “That would set a dangerous precedent.”

“I still think you should write to them,” said Brambles. “I think you might be surprised what kindness people are capable of.”

Gertrude looked into the wide, sincere and hopeful eyes of the Mystic. In that moment she realised that Brambles was not going to shut up about this until they begged for foreign aid.

“Fine, I’ll write to them,” Gertrude glowered at Bramble’s triumphant smile. “But nothing will come of it.”

Every other kingdom in Trodel had an embassy in Gertrudia. They were not as big as they used to be. In truth, most were used as a means of exporting unpopular advisors, but they otherwise fulfilled their usual purpose. If Gertrude knew them, and she did, they would be making their preparations, and excuses, to leave the city.

The Talmut Empire may have no quarrel with them, but it was never favourable to be inside a city when it was conquered. Nothing was going to convince them to stay. Never the less, Gertrude would write the letters. The more she thought about it, the more it occurred to her that she had very little to lose and plenty to gain. More importantly, Brambles would shut up for a few hours. 

“Okay,” said Gertrude, “so we’ve all got our respective jobs. I’ll write some letters that will be ignored; the Minister shall prepare the city for its messy last stand…”

“And I…” said Brambles, one with the moment, “shall sleep on it.”

With that, she swept out of the room. Gertrude and the Minister exchanged a look of mutual uncertainty. It passed, eventually, and the Minister bowed and departed as Gertrude reached for the nearest clean parchment and her inkwell. She had almost written her first word when she thought better of it. Not parchment today, she opened a drawer and retrieved something grander.

Vellum.

Vellum was a lot like parchment, but was much more expensive. Royal correspondence with other royals and diplomats were often written in Vellum. It was the proper thing to do when you were rich. Gertrude didn’t usually use Vellum. She much preferred the alternative of not communicating with people.

But this was different.

Gertrude felt something new, something strange. A feeling that was unfamiliar and thoroughly unwelcome. Brambles, the wretched troublemaker, had infected Gerturde with something approaching hope.

Hope they could hang on.

Hope they could win.

But most of all, hope that that stupid rat prince limped back to his desert wasteland, with an arrow stuck in his eye.

Buoyed by this gruesome image, Gertrude started writing to her fellow Trodelites, beseeching them to forget old grievances and stand with Gertrudia to fight the good fight, for all things noble, clean and pure.

Preferably for free.

Chapter Seven – Planning for Success  

            General Kopek was sitting in his command tent. Dozens of high-ranking officers were gathered around a large map, sitting, or standing, according to their rank. Most of those present were part of Kopek’s staff, though there were also representatives from the rest of the Empire. 

            These happy few had spent the last three hours planning the upcoming attack on Gertrudia. This mostly consisted of arguing. It turned out that everyone had the perfect plan to take the city.

            “Surely a seaborne attack would catch the Trodel-Borns off guard?” said an elf from Kotar.

            The idea had merit, thought Kopek. The Gertrudians would certainly be caught off guard by a naval invasion, especially by an enemy who had not brought any ships. The Talmut army had crossed a long pontoon bridge, across the shortest gap between Kobe and Trodel. The hundreds of barges constructed for this massive feat were left abandoned.

“I’m afraid a naval invasion is out of the question,” said Kopek.

            “And what of tunnels?” said one of Kopek’s senior officers. “The highest walls in the world cannot defend against a tunnel.”

            “How long would it take to mine under solid rock?” said Kopek.

The officer went silent. Kopek had arranged for the entirety of his engineering corps to be present at the siege. They were currently digging entrenchments in the torrential rain for Salak’s wonder weapons. Undermining Gertrudia’s walls, however, would take a lifetime. The whole city had been deliberately built upon hard rock. Salak had made it clear that he wanted a way into the city, and quickly.  

            Another non-option.

            A man from Jargot, who had a deep scar where his left eye should have been, snorted. All this thinking and strategy was clearly distasteful.     

            “I don’t see why you cowards sit around and bicker like old women when we could seize this city in a single attack.” He folded his arms. “Where are the warriors? Where are the men? Why do we put our fate into the paws of bunny eared milk drinkers who prefer to sing poetry to one another then to fight?”

This grave insult to all the elves of Kobe was met with total silence. Eventually, one of Kopek’s functionaries translated what the Jargot man had said. Then all hell broke loose.  

            “How dare you!” screamed one elf.

            “A gutter comment from a gutter-born,” said a second elf.

            “How dare you!” said another elf, though it may have just been the first one repeating himself.

            “How about we fight right now!” said an elf, from behind another, much taller, elf.

             The crowd splintered into a dozen verbal spats. Elf fought man and man fought elf. In some cases, elf had to fight other elf as there weren’t enough men to go around. Insults were thrown. Manhood’s were questioned. Sarcasm was employed.

It was madness.

Things seemed on the brink of someone actually throwing a punch when Kopek stood up. “My enlightened brothers…” Everyone froze. “I have no intention of launching a frontal assault if it can be avoided.”

He sat down again. One hundred mouths resumed breathing. As everybody calmed down, one of the braver members of Kopeks staff stepped forward.

“Our scouts found their garrison to be severely reduced. The walls would be scarcely defended. If we attack at multiple points along a broad front…”

“A few score men with broomsticks could hold those walls,” said Kopek. “We might overwhelm the first wall, but then what? There are two more, each of which is taller. A frontal assault will bring us nothing but a mountain of dead.” 

The staff officer stepped back into the crowd. The Jargot man spat on the ground, but added nothing else.

Kopek felt paralysed. He was used to a more intelligent style of warfare. 

At the Battle of Baston Pass, Kopek faced a much larger Larrikin army. Accordingly, he set up an ambush on a mountain side, which the Larrikins obligingly blundered into. Their formations were broken up by archers and the disorganised remnants run down by cavalry.  

At Fork’s Hem, Kopek had allowed an army of Roteria to penetrate deep into Talmut territory. The elves refused to engage the invaders, retreating instead, and poisoning the wells as they fell back. Only when the Roterian forces finally ran out of water, and tried to return to Trodel, did the elves finally attack, overrunning the exhausted invaders.

Kopek had always relied upon terrain, ambush, speed and encirclement, tactics that were going to be of sod all use in attacking a fortified city. And not just any fortified city. The fortified city. The graveyard of armies, empires, careers and dreams. 

Hordes of Snapfangs, Bermites and Barkmads from Crottle had thrown themselves at the triple walls. They were promptly thrown back. Mighty siege weapons from Badenhop had hurled countless rocks and projectiles at the doublewide fortifications. The machines broke down before the walls did.

Even King Sabir, the last ruler of the Talmut Empire, had made an ultimately futile attempt to take the city. Almost half a century ago, the elven king surrounded Gertrudia and tried to starve it into submission. For ten years, they waited, but it was all in vain. The Gertrudian ports, protected by the sea gates, continued to send and receive fleets filled with supplies, making the whole effort pointless.  

After a decade of slumming in the Gertrudian countryside, the elves eventually broke the siege, and the Gertrudian Empire was free to linger into another century.  

Against this impressive portfolio, Kopek could only boast command over two successful sieges. He owed his first victory to an outbreak of Cutters Cough within the separatist stronghold. The second was thanks to the efforts of the Talmut spymaster and a well-placed bribe to an apparently unappreciated night watchmen.

The General agonised over the upcoming attack. He dreaded Salak simply ordering a frontal assault. Gertrudia had been built at the tip of a peninsula, it’s triple walls protecting the only landward access point.  

The outermost Gertrudian wall, the low wall, was tall enough to protect any normal city. This formidable obstacle would merely be the first the elves would have to overcome. Behind the low wall was the middling wall, standing taller than even the walls that protected the capital of the Talmut Empire. While the low wall was merely an endless line of metre thick masonry and crenellations, the middling walls was all that with dozens of huge towers, each of which could rain murder down on anyone lucky enough to overcome the low wall.  

Assuming one had the skill, numbers, daring, luck and authority from God to overcome both these tests of faith, they were not done yet. They would still have to face the towering monstrosity that was the inner wall. Standing over one hundred feet tall, its twenty-foot-thick walls were dotted with huge bastions, each of which could house a company of soldiers, or a hulking siege weapon.     

These were the high walls of Gertrudia. The walls that had never failed. Except that one time. Kopek withheld a sigh. What he needed was an army with wings.

“And what of the wonder weapons?” said a Kermish Colonel. “Did your Prince not promise us all a miracle?”

Salak had promised that. Repeatedly. A special team of city criers had been commissioned to march through the camp, advertising to every soldier, cobbler, blacksmith and tailor of the marvel that awaited them.

Super weapons.

Wonder weapons.  

Salak’s weapons.

Salak’s untried, not even arrived yet, wonder weapons. They were coming, and would be spectacular. Allegedly.

“My instructions are to plan for the conquest of Gertrudia,” answered Kopek, “the weapons…”

That was as far as he got. A new face entered the tent. He was an elf, with seven long purple plumes sticking out of his silky purple hat. A messenger. He gave an elaborate bow. “Greetings, o’Lord of war.”

Five minutes later, Kopek was in Salak’s mansion sized tent. The muddy countryside was well hidden underneath layer upon layer of fluffy pink carpet. The thick canvas of the tent walls kept much of the cold out. The air was scented with lilacs.   

Much like the palace throne room, the tent was overrun with cushions, banqueting tables and paintings. The numerous portraits Salak had commissioned, since the campaign’s beginning, lined the walls, all protected by golden frames, encrusted with shimmering jewels. Kopek noticed they all seemed to feature Salak. In more than a few of them, lightning was striking in the background.     

 Salak’s private army of artists and acrobats, had also been brought along. Painters painted. Dancers danced. Scribblers scribbled. Lackeys lacked. In the centre of all this was the Prince, himself. He chatted away with some of the more severely dressed members of his entourage. They beamed at Kopek, as he approached.  

“Welcome General!” Salak gestured to a cushion opposite him “come, join us! Sit just there and be at ease. Why not crush a cup of wine?”

It was an odd request, but Kopek carried it out.

“Not exactly what I meant,” said Salak, picking glass out of his hair. Admittedly, it was a Trodel-Born phrase, but still. Surely he knew the culture of those he was conquering? “None the less, do sit down; we have much to discuss.”

Kopek sat down.

“We have done well to come this far,” said Salak. “Truly the eyes of God are upon us. Our camp is established, and our army is assembled. We are, at last, ready.”

The lackeys murmured their approval. Kopek nodded his head. The camp was not established. It would never be established. The ferocious Trodel winds kept blowing the lesser tents away. The camp was strewn with equipment and supplies that the weather had seen fit to relocate. 

The army was still arriving. The siege and baggage train were lumbering along, way behind schedule. It would not be completely assembled for a few days at least. Such trivialities did not seem to bother the Prince. “Do you know why I have called you here today?”

“No, your excellency.”    

“It occurs to me that there would be a great deal of prudence in discussing the ultimate attack on Gertrudia.”

The General eyes widened slightly. “Of course, your excellency.”    

“You see, General an undertaking of this magnitude requires the most dedicated and intimate of thinking. We cannot simply blunder our way into the city. We must think. We must strategise. We must overcome.”

“Absolutely, your excellency.”

“With that in mind General,” continued Salak, “we…” he gestured to his entourage, “have been working tirelessly to devise a list of all the structures and persons that shall be assigned special protection upon our entering the city.”

Kopek’s furrowed his brow. “Special protection, your excellency?”   

“I know the habits of conquering soldiers,” said Salak, wrinkling his nose. “As should you, I imagine.”

The General had to concede the thinly veiled insult. It was an unspoken rule that a city who resisted was a city that would be looted. Anything not bolted to the ground would be taken. Anything bolted to the ground would be smashed apart, then taken.

There was an additional unwritten rule that the harder the city resisted, the greater the devastation it could expect when it fell. If Gertrudia lived up to its reputation, it could expect to be wiped from the face of the earth by anyone who happened past its triple walls. 

“This is unacceptable,” continued Salak, “I need to be crowned in a city, not a pile of rubble. To this end, these buildings are to be preserved at all costs.”

A servant stepped forward and handed the General a rolled-up parchment. Kopek accepted it and undid the string. It unravelled, stretching down to the floor and making its way across the carpet. With some resignation, Kopek read the first item.

“The Grand Dome?” It was the primary place of Gertrudian worship. “Your excellency wishes to preserve the Gertrudian churches?”

“The larger ones, yes.” Any building smaller than a city block was totally expendable, according to Salak. “They will undergo a rebranding, of course.”  

The continent of Trodel was once home to many hundreds of tribes, each with their own unique religion and deities. As these tribes discovered one another, theological debate inevitably arose, as people asked the great question, which God was the God? Words alone couldn’t find the answer, so the matter was settled over a series of religious genocides.

One by one, the lesser faiths were stomped into oblivion. Soon, only three deities remained: Helios, the God of light and sky, Styx, the Lord of fire and death, and Tusko, the patron God of walruses everywhere. In the end, only the strongest of these could prevail.

“They may keep a few of the smaller churches and shrines to their Walrus God,” said Salak, “however the Grand Temple and a few other choice locations shall be dedicated to the greater glory of Sasha.”

Everyone in the tent bowed their heads in reverence.  

Kopek returned to the list. “The Valos University of Mathematics… the Harabe Lighthouse… The Wroclauw Library…”            

That last one caused a surge in excited twittering.

Salak leaned forward. “We must be particularly careful with that one,” he said, quite seriously. “There are over one hundred unique volumes and manuscripts in that library, many of which have not been copied or lent. Any elf whom so much as looks at it with a torch in his hand, will be flayed alive.”   

“Yes, your excellency,” Kopek slowly rolled the parchment up. “Your will be done.”

Salak clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Simply excellent! We shall seize a mighty jewel, shall we not?”

“Yes, your excellency.” 

The Prince nodded. There was a sly smile on his face. “I’ll bet you have many questions, General?”

“Your excellency?”

“Don’t be so formal, General,” said Salak, “I am sure that beneath the armour, your mind wanders as free as any other elf’s.” The Prince wasn’t so sure about this, but he was in a good enough mood to give Kopek the benefit of the doubt. “I’m sure you have questions about how I am conducting this war.”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“You are undoubtedly wondering why I do what I do and why I act how I act…”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“You are wondering why it is I grant the Gertrudians such mercy and leniency?” 

“Actually…”

“You see, General,” said Salak, “though it is beyond any doubt that the Gertrudians are the most reprehensible of God’s mistake, it is for this reason we must offer them the customary three days truce. It is curious, though, isn’t it? That we should offer those barbarians a mercy they would never, in a thousand years, return. After all, is it not their crusade to destroy our way of life? To burn down all we hold dear upon their pyres of greed and evil?”     

“Beyond absolutely,” said one artist. 

“Their trickery is without boundary or remorse,” said a poet.

“We cannot abide such transgressions,” said a painter.

“Yes, your excellency.”

“They are, at their core, simply a spider that needs to be crushed. A boil, that needs to be lanced, a…” he couldn’t think of a third one, “…we must be the crushers and lancers, in the name of Sasha, Kobe and civilisation.”

Salak’s sentiments, though delivered with his customary theatrics, were completely sincere. He hated Gertrudians. It was a popular opinion in Kobe. It was a popular opinion pretty much anywhere, but especially Kobe.

“How many Holy Wars have they launched against Kobe?” said Salak, raising a fist. “How many times have the clunky armies of man tried to force their way of life upon us? How many cities have fallen to them? How many insults have we borne from them?”

“Are we counting that embarrassment with the Halflings?” said a writer.   

“Every time Trodel marches against us…” continued Salak, “Gertrudia is there to provide ships, provisions, even soldiers. Usually for money!” The thought of destroying the scared sands of Kobe for mere coins sickened Salak. The other elves were not particularly happy about it either. They screwed up their faces and booed. “They are blasphemers, evil of the greatest variety, and have done much to obliterate our way of life.”

The crowd roared its approval. They hated Trodel, and especially hated Gertrudia. It was not an entirely unwarranted hatred.

Over the past five centuries, armies from all over Trodel had declared no less than nine Holy Wars against Kobe and their heretical, non-walrus God. Warriors from all over Trodel gathered into something resembling an army and launched themselves at Kobe. There, they burned down cities and stole treasure, all in the greater name of Tusko.    

Gertrudia often served as the staging ground for these invaders. Its proximity to Kobe and numerous ports made it an ideal city for armies to meet, greet and organise their extremist rampages.

It was an arrangement that had not gone unnoticed. To the people of Kobe, Gertrudia was the city behind all of these attacks. They weren’t far off the mark. In one instance, during the Seventh Holy War, Gertrudia had been, quite literally, behind the invasion.  

When Axion VII of the Tusko Holy Order, and his army of disciples, cut their way through Kobe, an army of Gertrudians had followed in their wake. Axion sacked city after city, always on the move, never staying in one place for too long. The Gertrudians, on the other hand, followed in his wake, repairing and repopulating each of the sacked cities, adding to their own Empire with every attack.

That little venture had doubled the Gertrudian Empire in the space of a month. While the land was eventually retaken, the undiluted hatred for Gertrudia remained and was going strong, even to this day.

“Do you see now why this haven of blasphemy, this den of rats, this hive of ungood must be destroyed?” said Salak. “It is not simply my will, but the will of God.”

“Yes, of course your excellency,” said Kopek. “We shall destroy the Gertrudians and then preserve their way of life and culture at all cost.”  

Salak clapped him on the shoulders. “Good elf!” he said, “I think you will find that the Gertrudians have conveniently decided to group most of their worthwhile infrastructure in the eastern most sector, by the sea cliffs. When we break into the city, send your most reliable troops there. I want not so much as a pavement pulled out of place when I arrive.”    

“Yes, your excellency.”

Salak leaned back on his campaign throne. It wasn’t made out of gold, but military campaigns involved a degree of roughing it. Regardless, Salak couldn’t help but be pleased. The weather was a constant harassment, interfering with his painter’s efforts to mark the camp, but other than that, everything was going according to plan.   

“General…” said Salak. He delicately plucked a grape from a nearby plate and rolled it in his fingers. “How fares the… secret weapons?”

The lackeys twittered with excitement. Evidently, they still were not privy to what the weapons were. Not many elves (and zero men) were privy to that information. Salak wanted it to be a surprise, even at this late stage.  

“The siege train should join camp in a matter of days,” said Kopek. “The weapons have not been interfered with.”

A contingent of Kopek’s best troops had been assigned to protect the siege train. They sent him hourly updates of their progress, to which the words ‘little’, ‘no’, ‘setback’ and ‘failure’ were common features.

“Very good, General,” Salak put the grape into his mouth. His audience waited for him to finish eating it “Very good indeed.”

“Salak,” cooed a dancer, “you still haven’t told us about your new toys.”

The other lackeys joined in a chorus of playful admonishments. Salak, a friendly smile upon his face, waved them away.

“All in good time, my friends!” he said, “all in good time!” His tone turned serious. “This, however, I promise you, when they do arrive, you shall bear witness to a sight more splendid than any in elven history. You shall see…” he leapt to his feet, “the destruction of Gertrudia’s so called invincible triple walls. Our weapons are more than enough to obliterate them, are they not General?”

“Err…”

“You see, my friends,” continued Salak, “unlike the Gertrudian savage, we have played our cards very carefully. We have assembled not only the greatest army of the three continents, but also, the finest weapons of elfkind. Together, these shall smite down the wicked enemy, and restore our Empire to greatness!”

The tent shook with applause and adulation. People cheered and hurled flower petals into the air. Amidst the commotion, Kopek tried to get the attention of Salak. The Prince, however, was waving and blowing kisses to his crowd. 

“Your excellency?” said Kopek. His voice barely carried over the commotion. “Your excellency?”

“Yes, yes, very good, General” Salak regarded Kopek for a second and then returned to basking in his applause. “I release you to your duties.”

“But your excellency…”

“Dismissed, General.”     

Chapter Eight – Schemes and Dreams

It had been three days since Gertrude had reluctantly dispatched pleas for military aid to every embassy in Gertrudia. At last she had received their replies, and was now in the process of throwing them one by one into the fireplace.

“I don’t know what I expected.” She glared as the flames devoured the letter from Larrikin. “Like getting blood from a bloody stone.”

 The letter from Brom was next. The fire licked at its sides, then consumed it whole. This process was repeated, again and again. Not one kingdom had offered support to Gertrudia in its hour of need. Gertrude, having completely anticipated this, was still angry.

“Worthless cowards,” she growled. “They all complain about the Talmut Empire’s expansions into Trodel, but when the time comes to do anything, what do they send? Their deepest regrets. Regrets!” Gertrude spat. “I regret their parents met.”

Gertrude had complained a great deal about the disloyalty of her allies. She did this knowing full well that she would gladly abandon any of them it the situations were reversed. It would have been pointless to point this out. Gertrude hated hypocrisy, unless she was the one doing it.

“Your highness,” said the Minister, emerging from behind a pillar, “I am afraid that this particular outcome was to be expected.”

Gertrude sniffed. “I still hate them.”

“Be that as it may, your highness, we must further our preparations, preferably in a manner of haste.”

Gertrude supposed he was right. Being angry, however satisfying, wasn’t going to help. She had to do something. It wasn’t like someone was going to knock on the door with a miracle solution to the crisis.

Just then, someone knocked at the door. Fortunately, it happened to be someone with a miracle solution to the crisis. Unfortunately, that someone was Brambles. The doors swung open.

“Hiyo!” Brambles entered the room and quickly misread the mood. “Did you miss me?”

Gertrude twitched. “Didn’t throw anything.” She glared the infuriating chirpy Mystic up and down. “And where the hell have you been?”

“Working, of course!” said Brambles, she gazed off into the distance, “I have spent the last three days in a deep Mystical trance, exploring the planets and the stars, moving mind, body and soul through the eternal cosmos! Deciphering their messages and…”

Gertrude turned back to the Minister. “Is there nothing we can do to convince the other kingdoms to come save us?”

“As long as the Talmut Empire remains the most powerful military power in living memory, neither man nor beast shall actively seek their wrath. It never seems to end well.”

“…feeling it as it flows through us, the Zodiac embraces us all and tells us that…”

“So that’s it then?” said Gertrude.

“Not necessarily,” said the Minister, “though the kingdoms of Trodel have declined open support to Gertrudia in our hour of need, they haven’t yet denied Gertrudia under the table support in their hour of need.”

Although the rest of Trodel may have alternated between indifference and amusement at the fate of Gertrudia, they would certainly welcome any enterprise which slowed the expansion of the Talmut Empire. Popular opinion was that it was big enough. Another popular opinion was that it should be burnt to the ground.

“…true masters of the zodiac, we stand together, watchtowers in the night, ready to…”

“We might do well, your highness, to remind the rest of the world what the Talmut elves stand to gain, and everyone else stands to lose, if Gertrudia falls.”

Gertrudia was still considered by many to be the centre of Trodel faith, due to its abundance of (mostly abandoned) churches. The loss of such an allegedly religious city would be a grave insult to the worshipers of Tusko. Additionally, Gertrudia, given its position between Trodel and Kobe, stood as something of a natural bulwark against expansion from the east.

“…though there was that one time I thought it might not work out. I had to redo pretty much everything and the teacher told me I was a…”

“I’ll leave it to you,” said Gertrude. This type of thing seemed more the Minister’s area of expertise. She hadn’t the patience to write anymore non-abusive letters.

He bowed. “Of course, your highness. I shall make enquiries at once.”

“See that you do,” said Gertrude. “Anyway, I suppose it would be prudent to put the other affairs into order.”

“…not that I’ll judge them, of course,” finished Brambles. She looked expectantly at Gertrude, who realised a response was warranted, or she ran the risk of having to hear the story again.

“Yes.”

Brambles smiled and the matter was apparently dropped. Gertrude, very much relieved, approached the latest addition to the throne room, a chalk board. 

“What are you doing?”  Brambles noticed Gertrude’s frown. Gertrude was always frowning, but Brambles seemed to have forgotten this. “Is something wrong?”

“Something is always wrong,” said Gertrude. She hunted through her messy desk for something. “Today’s misery includes our dear friends leaving us to die.”

Brambles deflated slightly. Being abandoned by your international allies was certainly a reason to feel blue. “Your friends turned you down?”

“Yes and no,” said Gertrude, “as in ‘yes’ they have turned us down and ‘no’ they are not my friends. Try as I might, no one seemed so hot on the idea of boarding my sinking ship. This means, as I predicted, we are indeed up to our necks, and standing alone.”  

Not that they would be standing for very long. Gertrude, before she received the influx of apologies to her hopeless war, had inspected the newly formed Gertrudian garrison and militia. She wished she hadn’t. Her entourage arrived at the barracks and everything went downhill from there.

“My dear lady!” An old, thoroughly wrinkled specimen attempted a crisp salute. “Welcome to the furthest point of our advance!”

Gertrude’s heart sank. Gertrudia’s new garrison commander, General Rost, didn’t look like a man who had fought a war this century. Or the last one for that matter. He practically had cobwebs growing on him.

“My dear lady!” he shouted, again, having forgotten that they had met several seconds ago. “Ecstatic to see you! I would stand to address you properly, but alas, events have overtaken us.”

The General’s rheumatism was so bad that he was confined to his cumbersome wooden armchair, which had to be carried out to the parade ground. “Fear not, my mistress! Legs or legless, we shall see these dirty Badenhoppers off yet! You shall see it! We’ll be stuck into them in no time!”

As the conversation limped on, it seemed to Gertrude that the General’s capacity to get stuck into anything, other than his own armchair, was in serious question.

Things did not improve when the conversation turned to strategy. He must have been trading notes with Brambles. All his battle plans seemed to start, and end, with a triumphant cavalry charge into the heart of the enemy. The fact that the garrison had no training with horses, or for that matter horses, didn’t seem to faze him.

“A good soldier finds what he needs when he needs it!” announced Rost, “it’s the way of my ancestors and shall be the way of yours too, your highness!”

Gertrude sighed. A leader without equal, which was to say, there was literally no other choice.  

The Palace guard had its own captain; a towering Hoglite whose grasp of battle strategy didn’t extend far beyond ‘hit people who mess with the Emperor’. The formerly diminished garrison had been getting by with a sergeant in charge, who also served as the armourer, paymaster, chef and on the weekends organised the local raffle. The only other military leader was Commander Vexus. He had departed with Emperor Varus, and Gertrude had a funny feeling he wasn’t coming back. So they were stuck with the immobile General Rost. At least he was enthusiastic.

“Fear not Catina!” he shouted, referring to Gertrude by her mother’s maiden name, “we shall have these elves back in their swamps in no time!”

That was the officer corps.

The rank and file weren’t much better.

A call had gone out for every able-bodied man in the city to take up arms and join the militia. Gertrude took one look at the sickly bunch and quickly realised that the words ‘able bodied’ had been stretched to mean ‘can stand up straight’. A few couldn’t even manage that.

For reasons of poor health and/or intoxication, some leaned on their weapons, or each other. A distressing number of them were still armed with broomsticks, a few of which had at least been sharpened. Still, the scrawny rabble did little to assure Gertrude that her city had a future. The fact that much of them were Halflings didn’t help.

“Are these wretched souls the best you could do?” said Gertrude to the Minister . She would have asked Rost, but he had fallen asleep. “Who are these sewer merchants and where did you find them?”

“What they lack in appearance, they more than make up for in spirit,” said the Minister, “I assure you, above all else, when the time comes, they will stand.”

One of them fell over. This was hardly surprising, his right leg was twelve inches shorter than the other.

“Sorry,” he said as he was helped back to his foot.

Gertrude gave the Minister a scathing look.

            “They’ll fight bravely,” said the Minister.

            “And die quickly,” Gertrude looked at the troop again. It was just as disappointing as before. “Did you just round up a bunch of homeless people, force them into a line and call it an army?”

            “Your highness,” said the Minister, “less than half of who you see before you were taken from the streets. The rest have joined of their own free will, after but the merest of possible encouragement.”  

Gertrude massaged her face with both hands. If they scraped the bottom of the barrel any harder, their hands would come out the other side. One last time she looked at them, and there they stood, or at least tried to. The defenders of Gertrudia. A few old hands. A hundred or so second-rate garrison men, a few dozen Hoglite guards, a local praetor or two and a few hundred vagrants, all under the watchful eye of a sleeping fossil.

The city would die without the dignity of a whimper.

            “I’m sorry to hear your meeting went badly,” said Brambles, in the present day, “but don’t you worry because I have…”

            “I am not worried,” lied Gertrude, “I’m focused, and I’m thriving. I haven’t been idle the past few days. Observe the fruits of my labours!” She pointed at the chalkboard she had set up. “Since there is no longer a military or political solution to this problem, we’re going to have to settle things the Gertrudian way.”

            “The Gertrudian way?” said Brambles, intrigued.

            “Yes,” said Gertrude, “we’re gonna bullshit our way out of this.”

            Brambles smile wavered. “You’re going to what?”

“Since we can’t win any other way, we are going to lie, cheat, swindle, con, deceive, screw and bullshit our way to victory. Just as our forefathers did years ago.”

Brambles tilted her head. “You can do that?”

“Of course we can,” said Gertrude, “screwing people out of what is rightfully theirs is one of our oldest traditions. It is the foundation upon which this empire was built. Without it, we wouldn’t have,” she gestured around the empty room, “all of this.” 

Brambles looked confused. Her kindergarten level understanding of how the world operated was being challenged again. “I thought empires happened when armies beat other armies.”

“Indeed,” said Gertrude, “and the reason we were so good at fighting was our expertise in the art of screwing people. It is the way of things.”

“Says who?” said Brambles.

“Says her.” Gertrude poked a thumb upwards.

Brambles craned her head skyward and was rewarded with the glorious sight of an enormous portrait that hung directly over the Gertrudian Throne. It managed to occupy about a third of the wall it occupied.  

“Wow!” said Brambles, who hadn’t noticed this until now. The portrait was of a woman, a very familiar one. Her hands were on her hips, and she leaned towards the viewer, a smug sneer stretched across her face. Both her eyebrows were raised in a wordless challenge. “Who is this?” said Brambles. She alternated between the portrait and Gertrude. Her eyes widened with incorrect realisation. “It’s you!” she declared, “it’s you, looking happy for a change!”

“It’s not me,” Gertrude ground her teeth. “That, is Gertrude I.”

“Wow!” Brambles took turns looking at the confident Gertrude on the wall and the angry Gertrude on the ground. “Gertrude eye?”

“No,” said the angry Gertrude, “Gertrude I, as in Gertrude the first.”

“Gertrude the first…” said Brambles, her eyes lit up, “there are more Gertrudes?” She looked around, as if expecting to find one. “How many Gertrudes are there?”

“Other than Gertrude I, and myself, eleven,” said Gertrude. “It’s a tradition around here that every Emperor name at least one daughter ‘Gertrude’. It’s supposed to bring good luck or something.”

“Does it?” said Brambles.

Gertrude glared at her. “Unfailingly.”  

“Wow,” said Brambles, again, “so who was Gertrude Eye?”

A hermit, born and raised by rocks could have told you who Gertrude I was. A hermit born and raised by rocks, but not Brambles. Gertrude had no interest in giving a history lesson, but once again, her desire to make Brambles shut up took priority over all else.

“Gertrude I was the one who built the Gertrudian Empire, mostly out of other people’s Empires. She also founded this city… kind of.”

“She looks just like you!” said Brambles.

Gertrude said nothing. There was an undeniable resemblance, that present day Gertrude chose to deny anyway. She hated that portrait. Even more so, she hated who was in it. That smug, punchable face, with her much better life, dangling just a few feet away drove Gertrude to madness. Admittedly, it was a short drive. 

Brambles, by contrast, was infuriatingly enchanted with the new Gertrude in her life. The avalanche of uninvited questions descended.

“What was she like?”

“Who did she like?”

“Why is she smiling at us?”

“If you could ask her a question, what would it be?”

“If she could ask you a question, what would it be?”

“What’s her star sign?”

And so many, many more. The last of them was this: “She must have been a very clever cookie to build an entire empire.”

That was one way of putting it. Gertrude I was the world’s foremost mind in military theory, diplomacy, nation building and nation stealing. She may have been unpopular in certain parts of the world, and outright despised everywhere else, but her style of leadership and statecraft were still being observed, even to this day. She was a genius without equal, and indeed, a very clever cookie.   

The modern-day Gertrude explained as much to Brambles, whose eyes shimmered in wonderment. “Wow! Cool!”

“Gertrude I conquered the whole of the three continents within one lifetime,” interjected the Minister. His tone clearly suggested such achievements were beyond exceeded parameters of ‘cool’.  “She was even able to subdue Crottle. Her magnificence is without equal.”

Brambles looked at the portrait again. “She certainly looks magnificent.”

“She looks like a prat,” contributed Gertrude.

“Be that as it may,” said the Minister , “she was able to defeat every enemy who dared challenge her, as well as all the ones that didn’t. Not once in her career, did she lose a battle, or for that matter, a war. She always said the key to her success was the art of deception.”

That was a half-truth. Gertrude I always said that the secret of her success was being utterly brilliant. This was detailed in her personal memoirs: My Enemies and How I Murdered Them. Arrogance aside, deception often played a central role in her campaigns.

In the lands of Crottle, she defeated a ravenous horde of Minotaurs by leaving a large golden axe in a place they would easily find. Inscribed upon the handle were the words ‘only the strongest may wield me’. The monstrous army tore itself apart as the vanity ridden Minotaurs butchered each other for the golden prize.

After a full day of nonstop battle, the victor (and sole survivor) finally emerged, drenched in blood and sweat. Breathlessly, he admired his hard-earned reward for several seconds before being pegged in the face by a ballista bolt.

The bolt had the words ‘ha ha!’ etched on its side.

Other highlights included: giving her own spies false information and then compromising them when they entered enemy territory, using horse archers to lure a barbarian army into the path of a different barbarian army and neutralising a fortified enemy city by building a much bigger fortified city around it.   

Special mention goes to the time she convinced an invading army of desert elves to turn around by hiding on a mountaintop with a very long speaking trumpet and pretending to be God. 

 “So, she built the Gertrudian Empire?” said Brambles, her face flashed with belated realisation, “and Gertrudia! She built this city, too?”

“No.” Gertrude couldn’t believe it took the Mystic that long to connect the dots on the city’s name. “She didn’t build this place, she took it.”

“Ohhhh,” went Brambles, “so when everyone say’s Gertrudia has never fallen…”

“Except that one time,” said Gertrude and the Minister, simultaneously.  

“Yes, that! They mean that time?”

“No,” said the Minister, “Gertrude I took the city, though she didn’t conquer it. It didn’t fall to her in the traditional sense.”

“How did she do it then?” said Brambles.

“In her own way,” said Gertrude.

She screwed them.

            While Gertrude I was carving an empire in western Trodel, a group of gnomes and their Golite allies built a huge city on the south-east coast. They wanted their city to be bigger and grander than any city ever constructed. It was built on solid rock, so no one could mine underneath it. It was sited at the end of a peninsula, so it could never be properly surrounded and would always have access to the sea. As a finishing touch, the landward approach was protected by two colossal walls, each the largest of their time.

The city was named Stochos. Its inhabitants boldly, and unwisely, declared that God himself could not hope to storm their walls.  

Unfortunately for the people of Stochos, they existed around the same time that Gertrude I did. The moment she heard of the so-called invincible city, she dropped whatever she was doing and immediately headed off to destroy them.

The people of Stochos were not afraid. They believed their defences would never fail. Gertrude I arrived, took one look and quickly agreed. The city, she decided, was impregnable. Her army promptly turned around and marched away.

The people of Stochos were astonished. Gertrude I, already a legend in her time, had fled without so much as an unkind word. The mighty city of Stochos has triumphed! The victory celebrations lasted a week. They couldn’t believe their luck. Nor should they have.

Stochos was a trading city, in a prime location. They exported silk, spice, grain and perfume, all for a great profit. At least they did, until Gertrude I started exporting the exact same commodities, for a tenth the price Stochos did. It was a great financial loss for Gertrude I, but she had a whole empire of resources to draw on. Stochos was just one city, albeit a large one. They just couldn’t keep up. Whenever they changed their trade of choice, Gertrude I changed hers to match, always with ridiculously low prices. A few years of this, and Stochos went bankrupt. There was simply nothing they could do to keep their economy afloat.  

“…so then Gertrude I bought Stochos from its previous owners,” said Gertrude.

“For less than a tenth its market price,” added the Minister. For once his smile was legitimate.

“And changed the name, just to rub it in.”  Gertrude based this last piece of information on an unflattering assumption. She was completely correct.

“She was visionary,” the Minister, “an expert, a master…” 

“A prat,” said Gertrude, “but a successful prat, so we must do our very best to shamelessly plagiarise her way of doing things.” She picked up some chalk and pointed it at the board. “Here’s the plan: we’re going to do a stocktake on everything we have and everything we know. Then, we are going to use these facts and figures to make a great and tricky scheme to kick Salak in his stupid, perfumed face.”

“That sounds like fun!” said Brambles.

“No it doesn’t,” said Gertrude. She chalked the word ‘Scheme’ at the top of the board and underlined it twice. “Now then, what do we know?” Brambles put her hand up. “What do we know that pertains to this?” Brambles put her hand down. Gertrude sighed. “We know Salak is leading the attack.” This was as good a start as any.   

“As I have already mentioned, your highness, his motivation is likely to be the consolidation of his power. As the Ministry had discovered, it is also prudent to observe that the various vassals that comprise the Talmut Empire might not be enthusiastic supporters of their new King.”

Gertrude wrote the word ‘Prince Pratface’ on the board and circled it. She linked it to the words ‘ego trip’, ‘fragile’ and ‘fragile empire’. “Good, good,” she twirled a hand in encouragement. “What else do we know?”

“He has an army?” offered Brambles.

It was technically an answer. Probably the best Brambles was going to give. The words ‘big goddamn army’ appeared on the board.

“And we have an army!” said Brambles.

Gertrude thought for a moment, then put up the word ‘us’ and linked it to ‘armed rabble’. Then she remembered the broomsticks. The word ‘armed’ was crossed out.

“We might also note, your highness, that while the Talmut Army is here, the Talmut lands themselves are only protected by town guards and garrisons. These garrisons will defend the major cities and towns, but will likely prove ineffectual against an organised army or fast moving raiders.”

How useful, thought Gertrude, considering they had neither an organised army norfast moving raiders. Nevertheless, ‘garrisoned homeland’ made the board. “Okay,” she surveyed what they had. “We’re making progress.” She wasn’t sure they were, but things were happening and that was good enough.

The game continued and more words went up.

The Minister, with some carefully chosen words, mentioned the relative stability of the Talmut economy and the non-existence of a Gertrudian counterpart. He also noted the lack of an effective Talmut navy while Gertrudia still possessed a merchant fleet, and a small escort.

Brambles, without a second thought, or likely a first one, blurted out everything that came to mind. Most of these were ignored. One, however, kept coming up.

“I think a grand adventure will have something to do with it,” she said, for the fifth time.

“It’s not happening,” said Gertrude, for the fifth time. She had precisely zero intention of leaving the walls while the elves were on the other side. “No one is leaving the city.”

“Ah!” Brambles gave a knowing wink, “maybe it isn’t one who will lead the city.”

She gave Gertrude another knowing wink. Gertrude realised that her only options were to appease the grinning idiot or continue listening to her. With a disinterested grunt, she scratched out the words ‘stupid adventure’.  

“Alright,” said Gertrude, “that ought to do it.”

She stepped back to admire her work.

Under ‘us’ were the words: big walls, rabble, no money, no weapons, merchant fleet, useless allies and blackboard.

Under ‘Prince Pratface was: big goddamn army, stable economy, ego trip, fragile, fragile empire, stupid clothes, dead father, dead brother, no navy, garrisoned homeland.

‘Stupid adventure’ was tucked away in a corner.

“Now then,” Gertrude clapped her hands together, “time to get to work.”

Words were linked, plans formulated, scenarios played out and angles considered. Gertrude’s mind worked at a hundred miles per hour. It was a true majesty of intellectual intrigue, sadly lost to the casual onlooker, who would have just seen Gertrude staring very intently at a chalkboard.  

Finally, to the breathless anticipation of her advisors, Gertrude delivered her answer.

“I’ve got nothing.”

“Nothing?” said Brambles.

“Nothing,” confirmed Gertrude. She collapsed into her throne. “Absolutely, bloody nothing.”

Sure, there were chinks in Salak’s glamorously bedazzled armour, but Gertrude had nothing to exploit them with. Kobe was a tempting target. It would have been even more tempting if Gertrude had anything to attack it with.  

No ally would fight for them and they had no money for mercenaries, and even if they did, what could they do but sail up and down the coast, raiding random villages? Amusing as that would be, Salak wouldn’t abandon his siege for a handful of coastal villages.

It seemed a hopeless business.

“Is there anything else we’re missing here?” Gertrude was grasping at straws, but it was better than grasping at nothing. “Any other fun little facts that could help tip things in our favour?”

“Well, there’s the thing I told you earlier,” said Brambles.

“You tell me many things,” said Gertrude, “be specific. Very specific.”

“You know, the journey through the cosmos…”

“I’ve already heard that story,” said Gertrude, unconvincingly.

“Excellent!” said Brambles, convinced, “as you know, I was in great consultation with the cosmos…”

“Yes.”

“And they have given me the answer to all your problems!” She waited for someone to eagerly ask her what it was. When no one did, she told them anyway. “The stars have selected a Champion! One who will deliver victory over the invaders!”

She allowed her audience a moment to appreciate this ground-breaking development.

“You’re an idiot,” said Gertrude. 

“You see,” said Brambles, “in times of great crisis, heroes always emerge to restore peace, justice and that. Since someone has come here to take away all your land, a hero has been chosen to come forth and do the thing.”

Gertrude considered this gibberish. There were tales of common folk coming forward in great times of need, turning a tide, or winning a battle. But that was usually in the realms of tavern talk and fairy tale.

That a great hero should pop up, now of all times, to save Gertrudia, of all places, from the elves, would be something of an astronomical coincidence.

Then again…

“The stars told you this?” said Gertrude.

Brambles nodded, enthusiastically.

Gertrude grumbled. That complicated things. If the stupid star thing was right before, why not now? It was a hard balance to find. Ignoring Brambles could squander an invaluable opportunity. Listening to Brambles, however, required listening to Brambles. As Gertrude’s father found out, this could be hazardous to your health. 

Gertrude tapped her fingers against the armrest of her throne. This sounded far too good to be true. Then again, what had they to lose? It’s not like she had a better plan.

“Okay,” said Gertrude, “assuming what you’ve told me is not nonsense, what happens now?”

“We must find them at once!” Brambles spoke with uncharacteristic authority. “We must set out and go on a grand adventure to fetch him!”

“Right,” Gertrude contemplated how difficult it would be to slip a force out of the city undetected, “where is he?”

“The answer lies in riddle,” said Brambles, mischievously. She cleared her throat.

“For God’s sake, Brambles,” said Gertrude, “just tell us the…”

“A land, far away, though not in distance, but in glory, a shadow of its former self…”

“Gertrudia,” said Gertrude and the Minister, simultaneously.

Brambles beamed. “You have answered the riddle!”

Gertrude eyes squeezed shut. She couldn’t believe how many roadblocks this conversation had in it. On another note, the riddle itself was a fresh source of humiliation. ‘A shadow of its former self?’ Even the stars thought her city sucked.

“Well that saves a journey, at least,” muttered Gertrude, “do you know where this guy is, specifically?”

“The answer to that lies in riddle,” said Brambles. She cleared her throat, while Gertrude smacked her forehead. “Walk towards the rising sun and see upon the fruits of…”

“Brambles.” Gertrude placed her hands as delicately as she could on the Mystic’s shoulders. “Time is not a friend right now. Very few things are. You could really help me out if you just gave me the address.”

Brambles hesitated. She couldn’t understand why Gertrude wouldn’t want to do things the proper way, or for that matter, why she would squander the opportunity to hear a fun riddle. Mortals could be so curious. “Well…”

“Surely you wish to meet the champion?” The Minister inspected his fingertips. “If we knew the address now, we could all head there right away and be acquainted with him. I’m sure he has many interesting tales to share. If we were forced to complete the riddle, it could be minutes before we set off on what promises to be a very fun, friendship building journey.”

  Gertrude smiled sweet relief. Brilliant! Simply brilliant! She could see the wheels, or more likely, wheel, spinning in Bramble’s head.

“Hmmn,” went the Mystic, as contemplated this breach of prophecy mumbo-jumbo protocol. Something eventually clicked and a smile spread across her face. “Okay, let’s go now!”

She surrendered the address. It turned out that the Champion was in an old orphanage, located somewhere in the Surge District. 

“Alright,” said Gertrude to Brambles, “go fetch this so-called champion and bring him back here. We’ll see what he can do for us.”

Brambles frowned. “You’re not coming?”

“Of course I’m not coming,” said Gertrude, “why would I come?”

“Well, you’re the leader,” said Brambles.  

That sounded like the opposite of a reason as to why she should go. Gertrude was about to say as much when it occurred to her that not going would be putting the fate of Gertrudia squarely into the hands of Brambles the Mystic.

“I have abruptly decided that you’re absolutely right,” said Gertrude, woodenly, “I shall come with you on what I’m sure promises to be a non-idiotic waste of my time.”

“Hurray!” went Brambles.

“Yeah…” said Gertrude, lamely. She turned to the Minister. “See what we can’t wring out of the other kingdoms.”

“Of course, your highness.” He bowed and slinked away.

Gertrude steeled herself for an afternoon outside the palace, with Brambles no less. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“Only your smile,” said Brambles.

Gertrude winced. “Let’s go,” she grumbled. This siege was pushing her to the breaking point. And it was only day three. “Let’s get this over with.”   

“Sure thing!” said Brambles. Then, without warning or invitation, this happened:

Open meadows! Sunshine bright!

Lord of dreams and Lord of Night!

Cast a smile upon this sight!

And lead us to the final fight!

The song bounced around the room. Brambles was twirling around in some curious ballerina style dance. Gertrude stood horrified. This was something new and terrible. “What in the hell do you think you are doing?”

Hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonnny!

Upon my nose!

“Brambles!”  

Hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonnny!

Upon my toes!

“STOP THAT!”

Hey nonny nonny…

“GOD!”

Chapter Nine – Mind Unleashed      

Thirty minutes and several songs later, Gertrude and Brambles were travelling through the unillustrious streets of Gertrudia. Gertrude hated being about the city. It was infested with parasites, rodents, stray animals and people.  

Worse still was the nagging sense of lost history. Once the crown jewel in an empire that spanned the width and breadth of the three continents, Gertrudia was now the world’s saddest flea market. Vacant streets, boarded up homes and a curious rising smell was all that was left of Gertrude I’s mighty legacy.

The richer districts still bore some resemblance to happier times, though most of the art galleries, museums, brothels and casinos were privately funded or, more often, simply abandoned. Much of the Gertrudian nobility had moved elsewhere. Who could blame them? The most popular past time in Gertrudia was to drink heavily and pretend you were somewhere else.

Cobblestones gave way to mud, as the small party entered one of the more common districts. People were running to and fro, collecting, selling, packing up, dropping off, putting boards across this and loudly declaring the end of the world there. It was slow progress through the pandemonium, made all the more slower by Brambles, who stopped to greet every butcher, baker and candlestick-taker that they passed.

 “Hello there!” she cried to the fisherman, as he ran towards the dock with his neighbour’s life savings. “Good morrow!” she said to the blacksmith, as she set up booby traps around her shop. “What a day it is!” she said to the hangman, curled up and sobbing in the middle of the street. “How about this weather!?” called Brambles, over her shoulder. It was raining. Heavily. “Isn’t it beautiful?” 

Gertrude, walking twenty paces behind her, muttered something at her shoes. She hadn’t brought her smile, but what she did bring was four of her hulking Hoglite guards. They marched behind her, badly concealed under huge cloaks, knocking aside anyone who strayed too close.

Strangely enough, no one seemed to notice the Princess or her curious entourage. They were busy panic buying, panic selling and just plain panicking. This suited Gertrude just fine. If someone recognised her as Princess, she ran a very serious risk of having to talk to them.    

“Are we nearly there?” called Gertrude. Her umbrella flapped around violently as the wind picked up.   

“Almost!” called back Brambles.    

They entered the, now ironically named, Surge District. Gertrudia, at its height, was home to over half a million people, by far the most populous city in the world at that time, or any other. The city today had shrunk to less than a tenth of that figure.

As the population succumbed to famine, war, disease and wanting to live somewhere else, entire districts became lawless, ghost towns. Districts such as the one the party had just waltzed into. Gertrude’s eyes darted about the desolate place. She tried to stay focused. She was a royal after all, and courage was the cornerstone of…

 A window shattered in the distance.       

“We must be close now, right?” said Gertrude, urgently.

“Don’t worry,” came the gleeful answer, “we’re nearly there.”

Don’t worry? Gertrude saw a pair of rabid dogs in a nearby alleyway, fighting over the bones of what was hopefully another animal. She hurried up alongside the Mystic. “Conditions are perfect to worry,” she hissed, “why shouldn’t I worry?”

“It doesn’t help, and it won’t make you feel better,” Brambles gave Gertrude playful slap across the back “besides, it’s a beautiful day.”

It was not a beautiful day. Gertrude came to this conclusion as her umbrella flew out of her grip and soared off to distant lands.

“Splendid,” muttered Gertrude, as rain bucketed down on her unprotected head.

The thoroughly drenched team eventually came to a halt outside a run down, ramshackle building. It went well with every other building on the street, all of which were in various states of run down and ramshackle.

Brambles beamed. “We’re here!” She looked at the dilapidated pile of rubble. “A bit well loved, isn’t it?” 

“If you say so,’ Gertrude sceptically eyed the rubbish heap. “Our champion’s inside that?”  

“It’s a definite possibility,” Brambles approached the front door and gave it a smart rap. This wasn’t easy, as said door was off its hinges and had been rammed through a nearby window. “He might not be home,” said Brambles, after a second knock.

“We should look inside,” said Gertrude. She hadn’t come this far (one kilometre) to go home empty handed.  

“Good thinking!” Brambles walked up to the empty doorframe and pointed into the dark, eery passageway that led into the cold, dead interior of the abandoned orphanage. “Let’s go!”

Gertrude peered into the foreboding darkness. The foreboding darkness peered back. Something creaked. Something whispered. Something…

  “I’ve got an even better idea,” said Gertrude, hastily. She snapped her finger at her Hoglite guards, who bowed down to listen. “Search the building. Bring back anyone you find.”

The pigmen nodded. Two of them trooped into the orphanage. The other two remained outside. Gertrude stayed where she was, to Bramble’s obvious confusion.

“You’re staying here?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t you rather…”

“No.”  

“But what if something interesting happens?”

“I’ll read about it.”  

Gertrude waited a few moments, then, encouraged by the hailstorm, sought cover underneath a rickety old veranda. Brambles joined her, and started talking. The Princess ignored her, and stared through the orphanage door, trying to make out what was happening. The old building was large enough to lose a battalion in. She wondered how long it would take to search. 

Brambles, finally done talking about their upcoming meeting with the saviour of Gertrudia, started humming to herself, because of course she did. Anything else would be less annoying. Gertrude shifted from one foot to the other as she waited. She tried to emulate indifference and detachment, but her ears were pricked. The slightest noise sent her head spinning.       

Thunder rumbled, and Gertrude twitched in response. She looked around for her guards, who stood, indifferent to the storm. A minute or so passed, then something happened.

A commotion, like furniture crashing, came from within the orphanage. Something dropped. Something stomped. There was running. Something crashed. Then a whole host of things seemed to collapse together. Someone shouted something.

Then there was silence.

“Sounds like trouble,” said Brambles.

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Gertrude, from behind her guards.  

“Should we go in and investigate?”  

“Couldn’t agree less.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“No.”

The conversation ended not a moment too soon.

Someone was coming. Actually, three someones were coming: Two Hoglite guards and someone being hauled out between them. It was an elf. A desert elf, judging by his skin. The Hoglites dropped him at Gertrude’s feet. 

The elf seemed remarkably unbothered by the fact that two bulky soldiers had just manhandled him out into the muddy street. In fact, he seemed remarkably unbothered in general. His eyes were unfocused. He had a fixed, slightly crazed, smile. He was malnourished, dressed in rags and smelled dreadful. If it wasn’t for the occasional twitch, Gertrude would have presumed him dead. 

“He was the only one in there?” said Gertrude. The guards nodded. Gertrude looked at the pathetic, ragged elf again. She shook her head. Wrong address, obviously. “Well this was a bust. Any chance, Brambles, that your star friends might have some better directions for us to follow. Preferably one that leads to our champion as opposed to some tatty, pointy eared chump?”

Brambles didn’t appear to hear that. She beamed at the crazed, homeless elf, like he was an old friend. “Gertrude,” she said, with the promise of upcoming ceremony, “there is someone I would like you to meet!”

“Is there?” Gertrude looked around. Her palms began to tingle. There was danger in that voice, that sweet oblivious voice. Brambles seemed very excited by this broken elf. Gertrude’s eyes widened. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be! “Oh no.”

“I would like to present to you…!”

“Oh no…”

“…the saviour of Gertrudia!” Brambles threw her arms triumphantly up in the air. Gertrude stared at her. Then her gaze sank to the ‘Champion’.  

On closer inspection, he was just as pathetic as before. His eyes were vague. His expression seemed stuck. The idiotic grin was still on his face. He clearly had no concept of where he was or what he was doing.

“This is the saviour?” said Gertrude.

Brambles nodded proudly.

“Our saviour? The one specifically chosen by fate, the stars and everything to defend our city?”

Brambles nodded again, proudly.

Gertrude looked at the elf, for a third time. He smiled at her. The demented smile of the undeniably, certifiably insane. Here was Gertrudia’s champion.

A madman.

Gertrudes head went down as far as it would go. “Of course he is.”

Brambles twirled into dance.

With a ha ha ha! And a hee hee hee!

“Oh, for Christ’s sake…”

From across the land and across the sea!

“SHUT UP!”

Deliver us from our enemy!

“I SWEAR TO GOD, BRAMBLES!”

And bring us victory!

“GAH!”

Chapter Ten – Digging Yourself Deeper

While Gertrude was busy wanting to kill Brambles, over at the Talmut camp, the elves were digging. They had been digging for the past three days. Engineers, at Kopek’s instruction, were establishing a trench and a series of earthworks to blockade the landward approach to Gertrudia. The only problem was there was a lack of shovels, picks and engineers for such a feat.

Once again, it fell to the common foot soldiers, who were thrilled to learn that after marching through the mud for the better part of a month, they would now have the pleasure of digging in it. It was hard, miserable work, constantly disrupted by the rain. Equipment went missing, and an ominous wailing noise that wafted over the camp. It frightened the horses, and those who rode them. The whispers around every campfire was that the place was haunted. It certainly felt haunted.     

Morale was hanging by a thread. Fortunately, Salak had accidently brought along the very solution for this problem.   

“Be at ease, my brothers! Be at ease!” The crier stood in the centre of camp, atop a barrel and beneath an umbrella. “Even as you dig, weapons of such power as to be worthy of great Sasha herself, rumble with certainty towards this viper’s nest. Every drop of sweat shall be repaid one-thousandfold once you observe the power of the heavens.”  

These were the criers that had been especially brought by Salak to herald the coming destruction of Gertrudia. Many of the elves were wondering just why they were fighting for this bankrupt city and its mud. The criers were doing their best to answer that tricky question.    

“In but a few days’ time, you shall see a sight worthy of history! A sight unlike any other! You shall see the death of our greatest enemy and the collapse of the city which has never fallen!”

“Except that one time,” someone called back.

“Except that one time,” admitted the crier. “Regardless! Dig now! With a drop of sweat, you shall drink heavily in the rewards of victory!”

Around the clock, these criers tried to light a fire in the common soldiers. They sometimes succeeded, which was a good thing, as all the other fires had gone out. The rain was relentless, and the wildlife seemed to consist exclusively of wolves that howled bloody murder at night. Everyone hated this place and were anxious to leave, victorious or not.

As these poor souls shivered and contemplated home, Salak was planning the finer moments of his coronation. He reclined upon his campaign throne and sipped at a campaign goblet of wine. His usual sycophants were on standby with suggestions.  

“I still say that the former monarch must be beheaded just before your magnificence’s crowning,” said a royal storyteller. “It symbolises the death of the old, rotten regime, followed swiftly by the heralding of a new and glorious era.”

“Your excellency,” said a young poet, “my learned friend has erred in his judgement. The execution should come after the crowning. Should it not the first act of Kobe’s greatest King be the elimination of their oldest foe?”

“Much to consider…” said Salak, stroking his chin, “much to consider…you have both presented an excellent case…

A third elf stood up. “Has no one considered that the former monarch might not be executed at all?”

The tent went silent.

“No execution?” said Salak, intrigued.

“Is it not the Gertrudian way to destroy that which threatens? Are they not slaves to the sword?” said the third elf. “Should our first act not be to humble them with our mercy, a mercy we know they would never grant us?”

There were ohh’s and ahh’s all round. That didn’t sound half bad.

“But there would be a lead up, right?” said Salak

“A lead up, excellency?”

“As in, the Gertrudians will be expecting their emperor executed, and we carry on as though we would execute their monarch, then, just as the executioner is called forth, I stand up and declare ‘nay, for is it not the way of the coward to destroy what they cannot control? I shall show mercy’ and then he kneels before me, or something to that effect…?”

The third elf nodded, and twirled a hand. “The finer points can be sort out closer to the date, excellency, but that would be the essence of it.”

“I thought as much,” said Salak, helping himself to a grape. He hadn’t seen much of Emperor Varus, or his family, but he was in no hurry to murder them. They could prove useful in some capacity. They might even make for regional advisors.

Then again, thought Salak, as he twirled his goblet, he had already seen firsthand how the empire was being managed prior to their arrival. Images of decrepit towns and scrawny peasants flashed through his mind. A symbolic regional advisor, with a good Talmut governor to properly administer things.

If worse came to the worse, he could just have them put to right at a later date, during an anniversary of the conquest, perhaps. It would make for a spectacular show. Maybe they could have the execution as part of a play. Salak smiled. With a dashing Prince as the star.  

His musings were interrupted by someone lifting the tent flap. A small giant made its way in.            

“General Kopek,” Salak nearly offered the General a glass of wine, but stopped himself at the last moment. “Please, have a seat. To sit in.” Kopek sat down. “Now then, General,” said Salak, “what brings you to our intellectual musings?”

“Your excellency, the trenches are almost completed. Within a few hours, they will be ready to receive the siege engines.” 

Salak sat up. The goblet nearly fell from his hands. “Splendid, General, Splendid! And the weapons themselves?”

“Your excellency, I have just received a report that they are two hours from camp. But they…”

Salak leapt off his throne. “This is it friends! This is it! The moment! Our moment! What we have slaved away to achieve, so close we could reach out and touch it.”

The Prince imitated a man reaching out and grabbing something. It looked as silly as it sounded. He grabbed Kopek with both hands. “General, I want every elf armed for battle and on parade as soon as possible! There’s little time left now!” He turned to his entourage. “Each of you have prepared for this moment. Come now and bring fresh parchment and fresh paint. Before you shall be a sight never repeated. The day that the mighty walls of Gertrudia at last failed their masters.”

It was finally happening! The moment of moments! Prince Salak beamed sweet relief, at least until he noticed that the General hadn’t moved. The smile died. “Something wrong, General?”

“It’s the troops, your excellency,” said Kopek, “they have not had a proper chance to rest. When they were not marching, they were making camp or digging trenches. Many are at the point of exhaustion. Could they not be granted two days to recuperate?”  

“Two days?” the Prince cried. “Two whole days!? When our victory is within reach?”

“Yes, your excellency.”

Salak frowned. The General was trying to rain down on his glorious parade. The regular rain was bad enough, but this crossed a line.  

“Now listen here General,” he leaned up to Kopek’s face, “you come highly recommended and with the highest honours, but a blind elf could see that the sun has set, rather permanently, on that rat’s nest and its oh-so-important triple walls. They are finished. Done. One good kick and the door will fly right off the hinges. I will not wait. Not another moment, not another second. I will see my father’s legacy complete, and I will see it complete today. Now get out of here and do as you are told.”

“Yes, your excellency.”

Chapter Eleven – Art Through Adversity

As the Prince prepared to change the course of history, a few kilometres away, Gertrude was banging her head against a pillar.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…” she muttered, punctuating each ‘stupid’ with a loud, painful thump.

Brambles, nearby, hummed a jolly melody as she knitted herself a new scarf. The Champion sat at Gertrude’s desk and read the various ministerial reports left lying around. If they meant anything to him, it didn’t show, and no one asked.

“You know, I’m glad things turned out this way,” said Gertrude. She thumped her head against the pillar. “When you announced that there was a solution to all my problems just a hop, skip and a jump down mug-murder road, I was sincerely worried that I would have to explore the unfamiliar world of success.”  

Thump.

“Fortunately, my old friend, complete and total screwup, was just around the corner, waiting to punch me back into something I am more accustomed to.”

Thump.

“You know what they say…”

Thump.

“Consistency is the spice of life.”

Thump.

Thump.

THUMP.

Blood trickled down her forehead, but she didn’t care. Brambles, keen with empathy, noticed some distress in the young princess.

“There, there,” she gently peeled Gertrude away from the pillar, “I know you were a bit worried about the huge invasion thing, but look! We have a Champion! And already, he is hard at work!” She pointed at the Champion, who stared blankly at nothing.

“Brambles,” Gertrude broke free from the Mystic’s grip, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but our prospects haven’t exactly improved since we fished this rabbit eared hobo out of his gutter. Furthermore, I look down on you, and all your kind, for even contemplating that this dribbling lunatic could do anything but waste my time.”

“But, the Champion…”

“champion,” said Gertrude.

“Hmmmnnnn,” went Brambles. She pursed her lips. “I know you’re upset, but I just can’t understand why?”

“Why!?” thundered Gertrude, her arms flew up into the air, “your so called ‘champion’ is about eleven eggs short of a dozen! All he has done since he got here was sit in my chair, rearrange my paperwork and steal a curtain.”

“He works mysteriously…” said Brambles, slyly. She gave Gertrude a playful nudge. Shockingly, this failed to win Gertrude over.

“Brambles,” started Gertrude, dangerously.

A very rude assembly of words was interrupted by the clatter of paper. The Champion had knocked a stack of them over. They scattered all over the ground. Unbothered by this, he plucked one off the floor, seemingly at random, and started to read it upside-down.

Gertrude glared at him. “Why is he doing that? Or anything else for that matter?”

“Well, I won’t lie to you,” said Brambles, “he is getting on a little in years… and yes, he has indeed seen things that neither man nor elf was meant to see, but the good news is that he is a true professional! He’s done all this type of thing before. He’ll have this whole thing sorted out before you can say sunflowers!”

Gertrude glanced over at the desert elf. He had fallen asleep. Her scathing gaze returned to Brambles. “Sunflowers.”

“Now, now,” chided Brambles, “he’s just getting warmed up. You just can’t rush these kinds of things. If you rush things, you’ll only get into trouble. Now, while we wait for him, why don’t you tell me what’s going on in your life?”

“Go to hell.” 

“Now I can tell, right now, you’re very peeved about something.”

Gertrude’s head plummeted into her pillar. “However do you do it?” she mumbled into the marble.

“Ha-ha, little trick of mine,” said Brambles, with unmerited pride, “pay close attention to what is being said, and people drop little hints here and there about what’s on their mind.” Gertrude dignified that with an agonised groan. “Now,” said Brambles, as close to business like as she could get, “I can tell you have the teeny-tiniest concern that the Champion is not up to snuff, just because he’s gone mildly insane. But I can vouch that this isn’t his first time doing this.”

Gertrude’s looked up, slightly. “You mentioned.”

Brambles beamed. “He saved the whole world! Well part of it…” she trailed off, then regrouped. “He saved some of the world! Once!” 

Gertrude’s eyes narrowed. “Once?”

“It’s more experience than most people get.”

That was true enough, but Gertrude was under no obligation to admit it, so she didn’t. “Out with it, then.”

Brambles happily outed it. “Years ago, a great evil dwelled in this land! A lord of darkness brought about endless tyranny. Her armies marched from kingdom to kingdom, enslaving all she could see and destroying all those who stood in the way!”

“Was it my great-great-grandmother?” Gertrude poked a thumb at the Gertrude I portrait.

“No, it was somebody else,” said Brambles, “the name of this vile fiend, the one who caused so much anguish and pain, was none other than the tyrant: Alora Magnus!” She waited for Gertrude to be impressed.

“Who?”

“The heinous Magnus had set up his base in the monstrous lands of Crottle” continued Brambles, “and though many hundreds of foul creatures flocked to his banner, there was only one who dared single him out for single combat, and that is the elf who sits before you!” Brambles waved a hand at the sleeping Champion.  

“He defeated someone?” said Gertrude. “What did he do, outlive them?”

“Nay!” cried Brambles. “There was a great battle! After many months of stealthily moving through the treacherous lands of Crottle, after dodging innumerable traps and endless adversaries, he at last had the great enemy cornered upon the roof of the highest tower of their mountainside keep! As the rains bellowed down and the wind howled by, they stared one another down. Then, with a mighty roar, the tyrant Magnus charged forward, his war hammer raised for the killing blow. All seemed lost, but before the foul Magnus could strike, they fell.”

Gertrude waited for the rest. It never came. “Magnus fell? You mean he was felled?”

“No I mean he fell,” said Brambles, “as in, off the roof.”

Gertrude’s contempt, previously on standby, assumed its regular post. “That’s it?” she spat, “he just fell down?”

“Ah, well…” Brambles hesitated, “well, the rain, I mean, it was slippery…”

“So that’s it then?” said Gertrude. “That’s his experience!? He walked from one place to the other and watched an idiot take a tumble off a roof?”

“He won the fight” said Brambles.

“Whaddya mean ‘he won the fight’?”

“He stayed on the roof,” said Brambles, “the other guy didn’t.”

“I would say then that the ground beat your tyrant while your champion was an active bystander,” said Gertrude. “I hope someone gave the cobblestones a medal.”   

“Well, you could argue that…”

“Shut it!” said Gertrude, “I’ve had enough of idiots for one day!” 

She had barely tempted fate when the doors burst open. “Your highness,” the Minister scurried in.

Gertrude rounded on him. “I am not in a good mood!”

“Of course, your highness,” said the breathless Minister, he gave a hasty bow, “but I come with grave news. A small fleet has been spotted on the horizon. It would seem that the ambassadors are leaving now.”

“And goes with them the only hope of outside relief,” muttered Gertrude. She thumped her head against the pillar. “Wonderful. Does anything else want to go right?”

Thump.

The support of an outside kingdom was the only hope they had to weather Salak’s pretentious storm. With the ambassadors leaving them high and dry, Gertrude wouldn’t even be able to needlessly prolong the siege.

This was intolerable!

“Order the sea gates barred and the ports closed,” said Gertrude, “we will keep them in as long as possible.”

“Are we hoping for a last minute reprieve, your highness?” said the Minister.

“Nah,” said Gertrude, “I just want to mess with them.”

The Minister frowned. He was about to recommend a course of action that wasn’t motivated by petty spite when he noticed something. A rather strange looking something who wasn’t Brambles, but was certainly showing the symptoms. “Your highness…?”

He gestured at Gertrude’s desk. The Champion had awoken and arranged all of Gertrude’s paperwork into a circle. He stared at them, intensely.

Gertrude rolled her eyes. “That’s our champion. The saviour of Gertrudia. Ignore him.”

“Your highness, What is he doing?”

“God knows. I certainly don’t.”

Brambles opened her mouth.

“No!” barked Gertrude. She turned back to the Minister. “By the way, Bramble’s magic nonsense thing was a bust. We’re back to scheming.” She expected the Minister to take this golden opportunity to further admonish Brambles, but to her surprise, he didn’t. He seemed far more interested in the Champion. “Something wrong?”

“My apologies, your highness,” The Minister returned his gaze to Gertrude. “I remain at your disposal.”

“That’s great,” said Gertrude, “because I think we’re about to dispose of the whole goddamn city. The stupid three-day time limit is up, and Brambles is an idiot.” Gertrude stopped ranting to stare into space for a few moments. “Now, of course, my dear minister,” something sinister wedged its way into Gertrude’s voice, “it is indeed your duty to offer advice at times of need. We are well beyond the point of need. Give me advice.” She pointed out the window. “Make them go away.”

“Your highness…”

“Surely there must be something up your sleeve?” continued Gertrude. Sinister was now accompanied by desperation. “An ace? A dagger? A man in the right place? You are the Ministry, aren’t you?”  

The Minister took a small step back. “Well, uh…”

It was the duty of the Ministry to provide all forms of information, keep tabs on the world’s political equilibrium and ensure as many coins as possible were rerouted from everywhere else to the royal treasury. Making an invading army go away with no resources, however, was somewhat beyond their capabilities.

The Minister was aware of this and more than happy to explain it to Gertrude. “Your highness,” said the Minister, “of course we of the Ministry have engaged in multiple… speaking… segments, purposed to bring about the most fruitful conclusion to this particular matter and in lieu of flight, as your highness has nobly stated is not a consideration, we have but one recommendation that…”

“Minister…” Gertrude advanced until they stood nose to nose. Her bloodshot eyes didn’t blink. “Minister, so help me, upon Walrus God…”

The poor Minister gave Brambles a sideways glance, his eyes begging for help. She offered him a friendly wave.

Gertrude, meanwhile, was starting to twitch, violently. She grabbed the Minister’s shoulders with surprising force. “I swear Minister, if you don’t help me right now, I’ll…”

He never found out what she would do. There was a knock at the door. It opened before anyone could answer. A Halfling messenger entered and bounded up to Gertrude. “Your highness.” He offered a low bow.  

To the Minister’s immense relief, Gertrude’s anger switched from him to the newcomer. She descended on the hapless messenger, grabbing him by his lapels.

“This had better be pretty goddamn important!” she howled into his face.    

The messenger shivered. “Message from the … w… walls, your highness,” he said, “the…the elves are forming up to attack.”

The colour drained from Gertrude’s face. “That’s pretty goddamn important…”  

Chapter Twelve – Against the Wall

Gertrude and the broomstick brigade were back on the walls. The entire Talmut army was paraded before them. Row after row of spears. Line after line of cavalry. Banners from hundreds of different companies danced in the breeze.

Even the camp followers and engineers had come out to watch, sitting at the camp’s edge. It was quite the turnout. Salak, for once in his life, was nowhere to be seen. Not yet, at least. Gertrude supposed he wanted to make a big, dramatic entrance.

Prat.

The trench was complete. The elves had their battalions formed up behind it a line that stretched from one end of the wall to the other.

Gertrude looked to her own forces. Somewhere under a thousand men, Halflings and Hoglites, spread between the three walls, armed with whatever they could find, steal, borrow or steal.

The most expendable troops, mostly Halflings and the militia, were deployed on the low wall. The garrison troopers and some of the less emaciated militiamen were stationed on the outer wall. Gertrude, her advisors and about twenty Hoglites stood alone on the inner wall.

General Rost was with them, along with his chair.

“They have a trench!” he observed, loudly “but no palisade! Not one on either side of their camp! Damn sloppy!”

It was true. The elves had taken very few precautions to protect their camp. They seemed to have been lulled into a perfectly justified sense of security. The Gertrudians weren’t going to leave their walls, and no one was coming to save them.  

“What are they waiting for?” asked Gertrude.

Rost responded with a series of loud snores.

In addition to organising the ‘troops’, Rost had also organised for sharpened broomsticks, sharpened regular sticks and buckets filled with rocks, juggling pins, drum kits, plumes, tiny quills, spinning tops, portrait frames, amusing hats and gravy holders to be stockpiled along the walls. These were to be rained down on the invaders when the time came. That and the regular rain, of course.  A light drizzle this afternoon, just to add variety.

“I love the rain,” Brambles spread her arms out like a scarecrow, as droplets rolled down her face, “it’s like swimming on land.”

“I also like the rain,” said Gertrude, “it keeps people off the street. Have you not heard back from your star friends? Don’t they have anything useful they can send us?”

“They sent us a Champion,” said Brambles, “they probably think that’s more than enough.”

“I’m sure they would,” muttered Gertrude.

The Champion had been left back in the palace for the simple reason that no one had remembered to bring him along. Not that it really mattered at this point. When the elves attacked, that was it. They would swarm over the walls and Tusko help anyone who stood in their way.

It was the end of times. Gertrude had always supposed, even before she took the reins, that the Gertrudian Empire was not long for this world. That said, she never contemplated she would see it happen, let alone, have the privilege of being in charge while it did happen.

The thought of it happening tied her stomach into a knot. She wondered what the history books would say. Whatever Salak wrote, she supposed. That would make for one hell of a read. Paragraph after paragraph of him leading the final valiant charge against the devilish Gertrudian legion of doom, and their sticks. Gertrude sighed. At least she wouldn’t have to read it.   

A chorus of trumpets boomed over the landscape. A fresh batch of purple flags made their way through the Talmut camp. Salak had arrived at last, atop his usual white horse, shimmering in his splendid armour, covered by a grape purple surcoat. His usual hanger-on’s followed in his wake.

Gertrude watched as the Prince, trailed closely by his huge entourage, slowly and pompously made its way towards the low wall. They halted at the same place they had last time. It may have been a coincidence, but Gertrude couldn’t help but think that Salak had chosen that same spot on purpose. Probably for some pretentious arty reason.

Prat.

“Masters of Gertrudia!” His voice echoed throughout the battlefield. The hand mage was with him. “By the mercy of Sasha, we have given you three days, three days to see reason and know the hopelessness of your cause.” Salak gestured with his free arm back to his army. “Do you not see it? The inevitability of the Talmut enlightenment? The futility of resistance? Come down from your walls, open your gates and save your lives.”

Silence.

“So what say you then?” said Salak, “will you come down peacefully or will you be destroyed?”

Gertrude felt the speaking trumpet in her hands. She had been trained since her youth in the ways of negotiation, etiquette and political parley. Now, at long last, the time had come for her to deliberately forget everything. She put the trumpet to her lips. “Screw off.”  

Salak bristled. That voice! He had expected Emperor Varus to speak on behalf of his city, but it was the same damn woman from before. Worse still, she was making a mockery of his great moment!

“You…you insult us?” his voice shuddered, then became dangerous. “You insult us!? This is your thanks? We offer you your lives when we could just as easily take them?”

“You can take us, can you?” said Gertrude, sarcastically, “then why don’t you do it, you great bundle of sticks?” She watched, with great satisfaction, as the Prince simmered on his horse. This was absolutely no way to conduct an interview with a fellow royal, especially while the commoners were watching, but Gertrude didn’t care. They had come here expecting an easy victory, and by Tusko, they were probably going to get it. But nowhere did it say she had to make it a pleasant experience for anyone concerned. “Go to hell bunny ears. Take your mercy and shove it.”

That was just being petty, but boy did it get results. Salak’s mouth looked ready to froth.

“I’m going to hang you from your damned walls!” cried Salak, “you and any other rat swine who dares oppose us! I will smash through your oh-so precious walls as though they weren’t there. Then I’ll be more than happy to teach you some manners, Trodel-Born!”

“You don’t scare me, you lanky peacock,” cried Gertrude. “This city has survived a millennia and it’ll survive you as well. Send your elves, send your slave men, send your whole goddamn army, and I give you my sworn word as a Gertrudian, you shall be granted three days to scrape what remains of them off my walls. Gertrudia holds, puffin!”    

To Gertrude’s surprise, the low wall erupted into cheers.

Much like their leader, the common folk had been dreading the upcoming attack. They had no delusions over their ability, or rather, inability, to withstand the battle hardened Talmut army. But hearing Gertrude so offhandedly dismiss the most powerful elf on the planet gave them strength. Their Princess obviously believed in them. They could win this fight!    

“Three cheers for her highness!” someone called.

They managed two.

Gertrude had, accidentally, breathed life into her troops and their cause. This, combined with the courage that comes from being very high up a wall, soon translated into a barrage of jeers and catcalls, directed at the Prince. Salak bristled as each Gertrudian tried to outdo the last in insulting imagery and unpleasant suggestion.

“You will regret this!” howled Salak, trying to claw back the conversation, “every drop of blood shall be yours and on YOUR hands! We shall not rest until…”

His speech was cut off, almost permanently, when a crossbow bolt sailed past his head. The Prince yelped in surprised and belatedly ducked. An assassination attempt! Salak took a long moment to recover. And another long moment after that.

“Did you see that!?” he squeaked to his entourage. “They tried to kill me! They tried to kill me!” The bolt had come from the highest walls. It was an excellent shot, given the extreme distance, having missed the Prince by a few measly feet. “They tried to kill me!”

“Yes, your excellency,” said General Kopek. He glanced down at his elbow. There was a crossbow bolt sticking out of it. “Ow.”

“You’ll pay for that!” cried Salak. He quickly pivoted his horse and shook his fist. “Swine!” 

With that he rode off, returning to the elven lines. His entourage followed, leaving behind a small trail of Kopeks blood.

The negotiations had concluded.

“That was fun,” said Gertrude. She turned to the Hoglite with the empty crossbow. “Nice shot. Missed the prat, but you can’t have everything.”

The Hoglite nodded his thanks.

The Minister was not so pleased. “Your highness, are you sure it is wise to make mockery of the elf likely to be the next, and imminent, ruler of this city?”

Gertrude didn’t face him, preferring to watch Salak’s embarrassed flight back to his camp. “Are you implying that our glorious forces stand the slightest chance of losing against the barbarian horde?”

“Of course not, your highness,” said the Minister, “but when they do, in the event of our capture, perhaps we should make ourselves more attractive in the Prince’s eyes.”

“If we are captured he’ll hang us from our own walls, or worse, talk endlessly about it. Besides, I’d rather die than have to make myself attractive to that ponce.”

The Minister buried his misgivings under a veil of professionalism. Brambles, by contrast, gave Gertrude a chummy pat on the shoulder. “I think you have some work to do when it comes to making friends,” she said, “but it was a really good job for your second try.”

“Citizens and soldiers of Kobe!”

The Prince’s magnified voice made Gertrude, and those around her, jump. He had returned to his lines and the mage was working his magic. Salak’s voice echoed form the plains to the battlements.  

“Loyal soldiers, who have followed me on this grand adventure, hear me now.” Salak was desperate to have his great moment. So desperate, in fact, that he forgot to switch back to his own language. The Talmut soldiers watched as their leader babbled away in Gertrudian. “We stand before the great enemy! The vile rat! The deceitful rodent! The ugly nest of vipers! Today, your sweat shall be repaid! Today, you shall bear witness to something, the likes of which no lesser elf shall have the privilege. Today, you shall see the almighty destruction of Gertrudia!” He turned to Kopek, who still had the bolt in him. “General,” he said, voice still amplified. “Bring forth…the cannons!”

“Cannons?” Gertrude’s heart sank to the bottom of her feet. “Did he say cannons?”

He did.

Cannons. The super weapon. The game changer. The thing that had sparked imagination, excitement and fear throughout the three continents. Much ink had been spilled and voices raised in debate about this new addition to the art of butchering people, especially in Trodel. Highborn and lowborn alike chatted endlessly about the newfangled weapons in every city and town. You would have to be a complete and utter ignoramus to have not heard about cannons.

“What’s a cannon?” said Brambles.

“Bad news,” wheezed Gertrude, “very bad news…”

She wasn’t wrong. It may seem strange in a world of magic and monsters, that a device which ejects metal spheres really quickly could command such awe. It should be noted, however, that a metal sphere travelling really quickly is still quite a handy thing to have, especially on the battlefield.  

It could punch holes in packed ranks, decapitate giants and, so everyone was saying, would soon be the end of city walls. Still a recent thing, almost every kingdom was trying to get their hands on cannons, one way or another. Gertrude remembered when an engineer from Badenhop had wowed the Imperial Court the previous year.

His specially constructed cannon had been fired into a series of abandoned houses, each of which crumbled beneath the bombardment. The noise, the smoke, the destruction. Everyone was very impressed, Emperor Varus chief amongst them.” 

“These weapons are magnificent!” he declared. “We simply must have them! Name your price.”

The elf did.

“…Name a much lower price.”

The elf didn’t. Soon after, the metallic cylinder of doom left Gertrudia to seek out customers with gold monies in their pockets. It was no mystery where they ended up.      

“If they have cannons,” said Gertrude. “We’re in much bigger trouble than I thought.”

“I concur, your highness,” said the Minister. “We would be fools to stand here idle against such weapons.”

“What are we going to do then?” said Gertrude.

They did nothing. There was nothing they could do. They had no siege weapons to fire back and there was no way Gertrude was sallying out from the walls to meet them. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for the weapons of the future to bring down the world’s oldest standing city. So, they waited, in dreaded anticipation.

And waited.

And waited.

After about ten minutes, Gertrude spoke up. “What the hell’s taking so long?”

Incidentally, Prince Salak was expressing similar sentiments to General Kopek. “What the hell is taking them so long?” Kopek answered. The Prince gave a moment’s pause before exploding. “What the hell do you mean they’ve been held up!?”

Chapter Thirteen – Slippery Slope

What he meant was that the siege train, far behind the rest of the extended Talmut convoy, had stalled, a mere one hour’s ride from camp. It was frustrating, especially for the elf in charge of said convoy. For him, the problems started shortly after the campaign did.   

The cannons were unwieldy, large, and cumbersome, even when loaded on wagons. They rolled along at a snail’s pace, and that was without obstacles. The untamed Gertrudian wasteland was nothing but obstacles. The roads were bumpy and in disrepair, when there were roads at all. The bridges were old and rickety, when there were bridges at all. Wildlife seemed to stalk them, as did the locals. Anything left unattended would disappear, a policy that applied to people as much as their equipment.

            The convoy and its escort, a handpicked squadron of cavalry, slowly lumbered forward. Over the barren hills they trudged, through the uneven bendy roads they groaned, past the dead forests they rumbled.

The trip was misery itself. Everyone was on edge, glancing nervously into the shadows and jumping at every twig that snapped. Eventually, mercifully, the end was in sight. The colossal walls of Gertrudia were spotted in the distance. The elves breathed sweet relief. They were so glad it was finally over.

Alas, it wasn’t.

The lead cart lost a wheel to one of the thousands of potholes in the road. The cart collapsed sideways, and its cargo, a pair of cannons, took an inglorious tumble down a cliff and splashed into a quagmire.

The quartermaster, who didn’t fancy explaining to the Prince that two of his prize cannons were marinating in Gertrudian mud, went to work at once. The cart was repaired and a makeshift crane constructed to lift the cannons back up the cliff. In no time at all, the crane broke, and two thirds of it rolled down the hill to join the cannons in the swamp.

After a short break, that was equal parts despair and swearing, the crane was painstakingly reconstructed, and the elves were heaving their cannons inch by bloody inch up the steep cliff face. It was hard work, made all the more harder when a patrol, sent by Kopek, arrived to demand that the convoy get moving at once.

After twenty minutes of lively debate over whether to arrive with two missing cannons or be late with the full complement, the engineers and patrol came to a compromise. The engineers would continue doing what they were doing, and the patrol would impotently shout at them.

#

    Meanwhile, back at the siege, nothing was happening. Everyone waited. The hours passed, along with the magic of the occasion. The phrase: ‘what’s the holdup?’ and several variations were making their rounds about the Talmut assembly, as well as on the Gertrudian walls.

Then the rain picked up. Heavily. The Gertrudians retired to their bastions and strongpoints, which protected them from the downpour. In warmth and comfort, they slept, gambled and pickpocketed one another while waiting for the elves to do something.

The Talmut army was not so lucky. They remained in formation and stood still, even as the heavens bucketed down on their heads. Salak wouldn’t dismiss them, or even let them move.

“They’ll be here any minute,” he kept saying, “I’m not having everyone head back to camp and then have to come out again.” That would have looked foolish. It was much better, he thought, that his army stand where it was and get drenched to the bone than retire in the face of the enemy. “Any moment now. Any moment.”

So they waited.

And waited.

Gertrude drummed her fingers against her elbow, occasionally glancing out a window. She wondered if all sieges were as poorly organised as this one. Someone had retrieved a kettle from one of Rost’s defensive buckets, and everyone was enjoying a round of tea. Gertrude sipped at hers, watching the Talmut troops endure the ferocious downpour. She snickered nastily to herself. It was the little things in life.   

The Minister had left, insisting he be given leave to try and make one last ditch attempt to convince the ambassadors to stand with Gertrudia. Gertrude didn’t think it would make any difference, but she allowed it. The way she saw it, the only hope for Gertrudia was for Salak to suffer a spontaneous heart attack. As time crawled by, it seemed a legitimate possibility. She watched Prince Idiot as he cantered to and fro atop his increasingly exhausted stallion. She couldn’t make out what he was shouting, but it was obvious that he was displeased with recent events.

Hours passed by. The rain stopped. Not that it made much of a difference for the elves, all of whom were now completely soaked. They shivered in their ranks but remained standing. More hours passed by. The sun was starting to set.

A red-faced Salak grabbed his reins and kicked his spurs. It wouldn’t do! Something needed to be done! Decisive action was required! He was, after all, an elf of action. He cantered out to the front of his shaking army. “Brothers!” he cried, “though the day is delayed, it is still ours. This day, this moment, it shall be written in history, it shall be written in lightning!”

Salak pumped his fist into the air. His army stared at their Prince. The hundred or so elves that could actually hear him were in no mood to pump their weary fists. No one moved, save to wobble.

“Don’t you see?” continued Salak, “every elf here today is a hero! Everyone who stands with me now stands for the Talmut, stands for the future! To wipe away the filth of the past and build a brighter future for elves everywhere!”

Someone collapsed face first into the mud.

“It is here, brothers! Here! That our stand shall be made!” said Salak. The collapsed elf was picked up by two companions and carried back towards the camp. “Our fathers watch us! Our ancestors watch us! Mighty Sasha watches us! We shall not falter, we shall move ahead until final…”

“Does that guy ever shut up,” said Gertrude. If she’d had known that the destruction of her homeland would take this long, she would have brought a book.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Brambles had been trying to engage Gertrude in conversation for most of the day.

Gertrude finally gave in. “I was thinking how funny those bunny ears look freezing to death in the mud.”

“That’s not a nice thought,” Brambles waggled a finger, “and an unnice thought leads to unnice words, and unnice word lead to unnice…”

“Brambles, please. I am not, and never will be, in the mood.”

“Aw,” Brambles tried give Gertrude a comforting hug. The operative word being ‘tried’. “Are you sad because all your friends are leaving?”

Did she mean the ambassadors? Gertrude shrugged and released Brambles from the headlock. “Yeah, sure.”

“Well, I’ll stay with you,” Brambles, headless of the last few seconds, placed a friendly hand on Gertrude’s shoulder, “no matter what happens.”

This was a sincere act of compassion and loyalty. A true show of unbridled affection. Gertrude had no idea what to do with it. “Er…”

            “Your highness!”

            A soldier on the middle wall pointed towards the Talmut camp. Something was moving. Dozens of somethings were moving. Large wagons, pulled by teams of oxen, lumbered through the, now cheering, Talmut formations.

            The cannons were finally here. The death of Gertrudia was back on schedule.

            The wagons rolled in between the elven formations and halted at the prepared trench line. Engineers hopped out of carts and scrambled to assemble the cannons and push them into position.

The cannons were a lot smaller than Gertrude thought they’d be, but there were quite a few of them. Worse still, Salak was looking immensely pleased with himself. He was speaking and waving his arms about. Gertrude couldn’t hear him, and didn’t make any effort to remedy this.

            Gertrude herself had nothing to say. There was nothing really to do at this point. It was over, finally over. Even the rain was holding back. The defenders on the wall watched helplessly as their doom was pushed into place. More than a few people decided they had urgent civic business by the docks, or under their beds.  

            The elven cannon crews shouted things at each other. Cannon balls were shoved down barrels. The elves in ranks cheered them on. Despite everything, they were still game for what was coming. They had certainly waited long enough. The Gertrudians on the wall looked on with dread, with one notable exception.

“Are those the cannons?” Brambles bounced up and down, trying to get a better view. “How wonderful! I always thought it was amazing what you mortals could come up with.”

            Gertrude sighed. She was going to die in the company of idiots. Her thoughts were drowned out by an almighty roar. The cannons had fired. Their deadly payloads screamed through the skies. Everyone on the walls instinctively dived to the ground, with the same notable exception.

“Wow!” said Brambles. She stood in an immobile state of awe as a wave of cannonballs crashed into the wall, several feet from where she was standing. The impact was deafening. The smell was putrid.

After about a minute, Gertrude, flat on her face, peered up.

Something was wrong.

There were no screams of agony or falling masonry. No gaping holes, no towers tumbling down. As the smoke cleared, the walls stood just as they had before. It wasn’t even obvious which wall had been hit.

Gertrude slowly lifted herself to her feet, comprehension dawning.  

Brambles was nearby. She hadn’t moved an inch, though she was scratching her head. “Is that it?” 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN – Stay of Execution

“What was that?” said Salak, quietly. The cannons, after great pomp and ceremony, had fired. The battlefield beheld the glorious shriek of cannonball towards the hated Gertrudians, like a chorus of heavenly, if somewhat off key, angels. And then… nothing. The wall was hit. The smoke cleared. The wall was still there. Salak blinked. “What the hell was that!?” he said again, not so quietly this time.  

General Kopek, aided by the chief engineer and a telescope, scanned the enemy fortifications for signs of damage. The highest wall had indeed been hit, but the damage was superficial. Barely a scratch.

The cannons were reloaded, which took an age in itself, and then fired again, with similar non-results. A few small dents, but nothing drastic. The walls were too thick. The cannon calibre was too low. They were not getting through.  

Salak took the news rather well. “What the hell do you mean!?” he spat. He spoke low enough to not be heard by the common soldiers, but loud enough for his officers to know that their careers had entered the realms of uncertainty.

“The cannons are inflicting negligible damage, your excellency. Not enough to create a breach,” said Kopek. Not this year, at least.

Salak wouldn’t hear this. Couldn’t hear this. The walls were supposed to shatter like glass. His world was shattered instead, and he didn’t much care for the feeling. “We saw the demonstrations. That Trodel-Born used one of these very cannons. It levelled a whole district of houses!”

“Those were houses, your excellency.” Not particularly sturdy ones, either.

“But we brought forty of them!” said Salak, “shouldn’t that be enough to destroy…”

“Forty houses, your excellency?”

Salak turned red. Whether it was through embarrassment or anger, no one dared enquire. 

He contemplated the Badenhop elf’s demonstration. The Trodel-Born had lined up his artillery and smashed apart house after house with huge explosive volleys. It had been so impressive. The smoke. The sound. The mounds of rubble.

It never occurred to Salak that the structural integrity of a peasant’s dwelling might be slightly less than that of the strongest wall ever created.

Meanwhile, another round of cannonballs slammed uselessly into the highest wall.

            “There is something very wrong here…” said Salak quietly.

“Your excellency?”

“General…we need to get into that city.”

“Yes, your excellency, we might consider adjusting our aim to the low…”

“General,” said Salak, “I don’t think you understand me.” He grabbed Kopek and tried to pull him close. “I need to get into that city. Now.”

Kopek didn’t quite know how to tell his monarch that this just wasn’t going to happen. He had hoped that years of neglect might have weakened the triple walls and made them vulnerable to cannon fire. Indeed, the Gertrudian walls (and everything within them) had suffered from decades of neglect, and yet still not enough to crumble before Salak’s winder weapons.

The silence carried. The other officers took turns looking in every direction but Salak’s. The Prince filled in the blanks. “Are you telling me that there is no way we can get in the city?”

“Not with siege engines,” said Kopek. Especially not these ones, but he left that part out. “We have been examining alternative means of entering the city, your excellency.”  

“And?”

“We have no alternative means of entering the city.”

“What!?” Salak was furious. Frustrated and furious. He could have punched something, so he punched Kopek. “General,” he said, massaging his wounded hand, “you have been a soldier for most of your life. You have led this empire to countless victories since before I was even born. Haven’t you, in that battle ridden brain of yours, no great strategy? No simple trick? No cunning plan to get us inside that godforsaken city?”

Kopek thought for a moment. “No.” 

Salak cursed. Loudly. This was intolerable! Here he was, barely two months into his regime, stuck in the Gertrudian mud, watching some overpriced Trodel popguns bounce off some shyster’s masonry. The Prince was glad his father couldn’t see this. The last investment ever made by the old king might as well have been flung off a cliff.

Salak had always considered that there might be the odd hiccup here and there. Sure, the timetable might be stretched, a museum or two might not be saved from the torch, but little things like this can slip through the cracks of history, with just a revision or two. Not getting in the city, whatsoever, would be slightly harder to sweep underneath the carpet.

This was one of two rude awakenings. Even if the cannons were a flop, shouldn’t his army, his huge, numberless army, be able to do the job? Couldn’t they just swarm over the undefended walls? Yes, many would die, and that was, of course, undesirable, but at least they would win.

They might not go home as timeless legends, not even as heroes, but at the very least they could go home as the damn victors! Now he was being told that he couldn’t even have that.     

Worse than that, thought Salak, what of Kobe? It felt miles away, mostly because it was. What would they say? Salak subconsciously grabbed at his own neck. What would they do?

What had Kopek told him before they left? About the loyalty of the vassals? That it was somewhat dubious? What would they say if they found out their new king was a failure? Salak’s rather extensive imagination went wild with consequences. His face went white. This couldn’t be happening!

No, thought Salak, this shouldn’t be happening.

“General,” Salak held down his voice, and forced it to be calm, “regardless of what you may think, we shall be entering that city, even if our troops have to climb their way in over their own broken bones. I understand that brute force is more the way of the men, but we will be entering that city, Sasha as my witness.” He bowed his head. “You have one week to tell me how you plan to enter that city. I don’t care how you do it, but you will do it. If you have no plan, then you shall throw yourself against that monstrosity until it breaks. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your excellency.”

“Good,” he turned to leave, “one other thing… keep the cannons firing. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that they weren’t effective. They were very expensive and very impressive and very effective.”

“Yes, your excellency.”    

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – A WONDERFUL LIE

            Gertrude was back at the palace.

After an hour’s bombardment, it became clear that the walls were not going to buckle under Salak’s artillery. The city would survive the dreaded superweapons, but that still left the problem of the very large, albeit it thoroughly drenched, elven army, still camped out on the doorstep.

            Cannons or no cannons, as long as they were here, they were dangerous, and Gertrude was very keen to see them gone, or better yet dead. This meant schemes. There was no time to waste. Acting swiftly, she stared intently at her planning blackboard.

            “There’s something here,” she muttered. “Something I haven’t seen. Something no one has seen. A chink in the armour just waiting for a knife to slip in…” She stared at the chalk in her hands. The chalk stared back. “Answer me!” roared Gertrude. The chalk went flying across the room. 

Brambles, also present, made a vain effort to separate Gertrude from both the blackboard and her most recent descent into madness. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said, trying to pull Gertrude away, “you’ll do your heart no favours.”

“I don’t need favours,” growled Gertrude, “I need answers!”

She had to admit though; it was a delight to see Salak’s cannons flop. Rost had mentioned that they should add bales of straw to cushion the walls as an additional safeguard. Gertrude didn’t know if this was sound strategy or evidence of senility, but she let him do it.

Hilarious as recent events were, time was not a friend. That purple idiot would wise up eventually and they would attack in a more direct manner. They needed a scheme. A great and almighty scheme. Something devious. Something destructive. A colossal sucker punch that would send the rabbit eared wastelanders back to the dandy hellhole they crawled out of.

But how?

How?

Gertrude felt her mind strain under the enormity of the task, or possibly from the dent she had worked into her forehead. She was about to resume her crazed mantra when the doors swung open and the Minister rushed in.  

“Your highness,” he said, heaving “I can no longer hold them back.” He spoke of the ambassadors. “They have heard the cannons and are convinced the city could fall at any moment. They demand the right to leave at once, saying they’ll fight their way out if they have to.” He coughed into a fist and got his breath back. ‘But there is also some good news.”

“More good news?” Gertrude looked up. Today was a day for miracles.

“I have received a roddel bird from Genop. They have pledged us six siege engines for the defence of the city, cannons no less, as well as a loan of several hundred golden monies.” The word ‘loan’ was a mere formality. No one in Genop expected to see the money ever again. Nor would they. “A ship carrying them has already been dispatched.”

Incidentally, the cannons pledged were not much different from the ones the Salak’s forces were using, though slightly lower calibre. Genop was a highly religious city state, made up of men, gnomes and Hoglites, each of whom were known for their love and devotion towards Tusko and utter disdain towards everything else.

The Genop High council had been monitoring Salak’s campaign for some time now, watching with alarm as the Talmut army approached the holy city of Gertrudia. The question was raised as to whether the Gertrudians could fend for themselves. Gertrude’s desperate plea for aid suggested not. The debates had raged long and hard, but eventually the Genop Council decided they weren’t going to a let a pack of filthy, backstabbing gutter rats get kicked around by the Talmut Empire. Not while Gertrudia had so many Tusko themed churches in it.

“Well that’s good and well,” said Gertrude, “but a few cannons aren’t going to be enough to turn the tide.” It was something though. She added ‘religious cannons’ and ‘small pile of cash’ to her chalkboard. She about to ask the Minister when they could expect this curious donation when he cut her off with a gasp.

“My apologies, your highness,” he said, composing himself, “but I now know where I’ve seen that elf before.”

He was referring to the Champion, who, for reasons best known to himself, had wrapped a curtain around his body, not unlike a toga.  

Brambles beamed. “He’s putting his plan into action!”

“What plan?” said Gertrude, “does he plan to beat Salak in the coveted ‘I don’t know how to dress myself’ tournament?”

“It’s funny you should say that, your highness,” said the Minister, “he does bare a passing resemblance to a rather prominent elf, Prince Salak’s late brother in fact.”

“He does?” Gertrude had met Salak’s family before, years ago, but didn’t remember any of them by appearance. Salak, obviously, had been an exception. You never forgot a hat that big, nor the bird that was sitting on it. “You say the ‘champion’ looks like him?”

“If Salak’s brother had been starved, deprived of sunlight and wore a curtain, then yes, your highness.”

“Salak’s brother,” said Gertrude, thinking aloud, “Salak’s brother…”

This was an asset. An unusual asset, but an asset none the less. She consulted her chalkboard. “Salak’s older brother.” Where would that fit? “Salak’s older brother…”

It had to fit in somewhere. She scanned her board, ‘rabble’, ‘useless allies’, merchant fleet’, ‘Prince Pratface’. Where could it go?

Then she saw it, tucked away in the corner.

‘Stupid adventure’.

Gertrude rolled her eyes. Stupid Mystic.

Then it happened.

In a moment.

In a flash.

Inspiration.

Lightning struck. The planets aligned. Night turned into day and mud turned into wine. Gertrude could see it, from cradle to grave. There it was.

Something big.

Something devious.

Something lethal.

Slowly, but surely, a grin of unprecedented nastiness spread across Gertrude’s face. Then she chuckled. It started small, but before long the hideous cackle was bouncing all around the throne room. 

 “Your highness?” said the Minister, stepping backwards.                         

Gertrude turned on the Minister, as though just noticing him. “Salak’s brother.”

“Yes…your highness…”

“Salak’s older brother.”

“Yes, your highness…”

Gertrude looked at the board. That would do nicely. “Minister,” she said, “please inform the ambassadors that I would like to apologise to them in person.” She ignored his expression. “And I would like to know when we can expect those cannons from Genop.”

Brambles smiled. “You’ve just come up with a really big plan, haven’t you?” 

“Yes.”

“Can we hear it?”

“No.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN – WHEN IT RAINS

When Kopek entered Salak’s tent, he found the Prince hunched over on his wooden campaign throne. Salak was alone, save for a half empty bottle and a few servants who looked like they wanted to be somewhere else. The Prince didn’t even look up. “And?”

Kopek stood to attention. He couldn’t help but notice several of the Prince’s prized portraits had been repurposed as dart boards.  

“The past two months bombardment has yielded no significant damage to the lowest wall, your excellency. The Gertrudians have employed some kind of cover that the artillery can’t penetrate.”

“Splendid,” Salak’s head disappeared into his hands, “just splendid. What else?”

“Your excellency, our engineers are still at work.”

Salak slumped back in his seat. This report was no different from the last twelve. An assortment of battering rams and assault ladders could not be conjured up at a moment’s notice, nor the trench completely refilled overnight, but even with the combined efforts of his army, the process was painfully slow.   

“And what of the shipping?”

“Nothing irregular, your excellency.”

A month ago, a large group of ships from every nation of Trodel had approached Gertrudian. They bore diplomatic flags and left soon after arrival. Since then, however, ships had been coming and going from Gertrudian ports at great enough frequency to attract Salak’s attention.

At one point, a small fleet, full of soldiers, approached the enemy sea gates, but they too sailed away soon after, the soldiers still onboard. A convoy of fat Gertrudian transports followed in their wake. All this activity was cause for concern. Salak had hoped the Gertrudians would sit back and patiently await annihilation. The bastards were up to something, and he had no idea what. Could they be evacuating? If so, where did they intend on going? “And you still have no idea where they are coming from?”

“I’m afraid not, your excellency. They flew no flags. We believe they may be mercenary bands.”

Salak massaged his head. How could those starving bastards afford mercenaries? For that matter, how could those starving bastards afford a fleet worth of mercenaries? What were they being paid in, mud?

His thoughts were interrupted by a single drop of rain that had slithered its way through the various layers of tent canvas. It landed directly on Salak’s head, causing him to twitch.

            When he was king of this place, thought Salak, one eye involuntarily winking, and king he would be, he was going to whip those Gertrudians into the street where they would pave up all the roads, repair all the bridges and then they would build a damn roof over the entire continent!

            The tent flaps opened and a messenger marched in. He bowed to Salak, handed Kopek a pair of letters and then quickly departed.

“What now?” grunted Salak.

            Kopek unravelled the first letter and read it. Then he read it again. The message was only thirty words long. He then read it a third time.

            Salak scowled at Kopek’s puzzled look. “Well, what does it say?” 

            “Samsil has been sacked.”

            The silence that followed was deafening. The air had been sucked straight out of the tent, as well as Salak’s lungs. He shook violently on his throne. “Wha…wha… what did you say!?”

“Samsil has been…”

Salak snatched the message out of Kopek’s hand. He read it three times in about as many seconds. “Samsil sacked!?” he thundered. “Sacked!”

Samsil was a small port town in Kobe. A trading point, not walled, or defended in any serious way. That said, Samsil was owned and exclusively populated by Talmut elves. Its destruction was not merely a setback for the empire, but a direct insult.

The message crumbled in Salak’s hand. “Who would dare do this!?”

 Kopek wasn’t listening. He was in the process of rereading the second message for the fifth time. It got worse with every viewing. Without waiting, Salak snatched that letter as well.

As the Prince’s eyes raced across the page, Salak’s servants looked at each other, wordlessly asking the question “should we still be here when he finishes?” Their question was answered a moment later, when the red faced Prince, leapt to his feet, the letter clenched tightly in his fist. He rounded on his small, thoroughly terrified, audience, who leapt back in fear.   

“Just what the hell is going on!?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – LIE OF OMISSION

Gertrude’s feet were propped up on her writing desk. She swirled a glass of wine in one hand and held a report in the other. She was smiling. It wasn’t a nasty smile or an ironic one, but completely genuine. So genuine, in fact, that it looked utterly out of place on Gertrude’s face. 

“I’m brilliant,” she chuckled. No one answered, which was unsurprising. She was alone, which made the moment all the sweeter.

She toasted herself and sipped at her wine. It was the best that could be found in the city. It wasn’t great, or for that matter, even good, but it was the best, and this situation warranted the best. Not in a hundred years, Gertrude reckoned, would Gertrudia enjoy as much glory as it had right now.

They were going to win this thing. Against all odds, they were going to push the wastelanders right back into their filthy deserts. Gertrude couldn’t believe it. To think of what incredible things could be done with just a little organisation, and some well-placed foreign aid.   

“Praise be to Tusko.” Gertrude finished her drink and set it down. Reclining comfortably, she decided to partake in her new favourite past time: reminiscing on her brilliant plan and its flawless execution.

When the Minister had come running, squawking about the flight of the ambassadors, Gertrude ordered ambassadors be sent to the palace at once. They were duly presented to Gertrude, one at a time, with all the formalities offered at a royal coronation. This only served to make the poor ambassadors all the more nervous. They could still hear the cannon fire, and were not privy to the fact that it was a total waste of time.

Gertrude was just fine with that.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Gertrude, over the sound of the distant booms. “They may have a massive army, hundreds of cannons and enough pitch to melt this city into a puddle, but we,” she bowed her head reverently, “have God on our side.”

The assembled ambassadors sifted awkwardly. They were all devout followers of Tusko but would have been much happier to have the batteries of artillery, as well as God.

“Now, then,” continued Gertrude, “I understand you would all love to leave, and have even arranged ships to come collect you…” The crowd held its breath. The next words could be their salvation, or their doom. To everyone’s surprise, it was the former. “And, of course, you are all permitted to go, but unfortunately…” she drew the word out for maximum effect, “the sea gate is broken, and in these uncertain times, I’m just not so sure we can spare the funds to have it repaired…”

Gertrude met the eyes of her audience, who, as one, got her meaning, and sighed internally. Astonishingly, every man and woman present found it in their heart to make a charitable donation to the Gertrudian war effort. Also astonishingly was how quickly the sea gate was repaired when every man and woman had emptied their wallet.

The ambassadors departed, leaving a small mountain the coins on Gertrude’s desk. “Now then,” she turned to the Minister, who was piling the coins into neat little stacks, “send these at once,” she handed him a pile of letters, “and when those cannons arrive from Genop, I want them polished to a shine. I want them to be dazzling. And have whatever members of the clergy present themselves before me. Tell them to bring their most expensive vestments…”

“Your highness…”

“And when you’re done with that, send for a dressmaker, the best you can find, borrow or steal.”

“Your highness…”

“Don’t ask questions. Just do it.”

#

            The first ship came from Badenhop. The Nebel. It was sleek, compact and, most importantly, didn’t fly the flag of any kingdom. Gertrude watched it glide past through the open sea gates and into the military harbour. She wasn’t alone. The Minister, Champion, Brambles, and a large complement of her Hoglite guards were there as well.      

            The Nebel pulled up to the dock. Its crew, a collection of pale Trodel elves, stood upon its deck. Some were sailors, who went about their nautical chores. Most, however, were soldiers, decked out in chainmail, and wielding pikes and crossbows. Despite being in Gertrudia by invitation, they had the outward appearance of entering hostile territory, and were ready for anything.

            Given where they were docked, Gertrude didn’t blame them.

            A gangplank was set down and a dozen elves trooped across it. The head of this delegation greeted Gertrude with a curt bow and a frown. His armed entourage formed a line behind him.  

            “Greetings,” said Gertrude, pleasantly, “I trust you had a pleasant voyage?”

            The elf said nothing.

            “Wonderful,” said Gertrude, “shall we get down to business?”

            The elf nodded, curtly.

            “Great, so the situation is this,” said Gertrude, “the elves of Kobe…” (the mercenary elf wrinkled his nose) “…under the leadership of the tyrant Salak, have invaded us, as you may have noticed…”

            The elf nodded, curtly.

            “…Which is terrible… anyway, we have made a rather important discovery. It transpires that not only is Salak’s elder brother, the rightful heir to the Talmut throne, alive, he also happens to be in this very city.”

            She gestured to the Champion. He was wearing a new set of clothes that were vaguely Talmut in appearance. Gertrude’s tiara had been reshaped into a small crown, and placed on the Champions head. The old elf smiled pleasantly at nothing.

The mercenary glanced at the Champion, then slowly turned his gaze back to Gertrude. His frown tightened.   

            “As you can see,” said Gertrude, “he is definitely the rightful heir to the Talmut Empire and absolutely not a fake. Anyway, there are heathens who, for some ungodly reason, reject the truth and refuse to see reason. We need you and your gifted band of murder…cenaries to escort him back to Kobe where he can be viole…regally restored to his throne. Which is his by right.”

            The mercenary raised an eyebrow several millimetres. InvadeKobe? His company included about a hundred fighting elves and one ship. He looked between Gertrude and the Champion and tried to decide which one of them looked the craziest.

            “You are some of Trodel’s finest warriors,” said Gertrude, “what have the wastelanders got that can threaten you?” 

            The elves of Badenhop were indeed respected for their sophisticated style of war. This style mostly constated of blasting opponents apart with heavy artillery and stabbing any dazed survivors with very long sticks.

            That said, all past expeditions into Kobe had ended in failure. Badenhop had sent forces into the Talmut Empire not twenty years ago. The campaign ended shortly after the first battle, with the shattered Badenhop army crawling its way back to Trodel. This mercenary didn’t much care for a small scale re-enactment. He was preparing his curt goodbye nod when Gertrude intercepted him.         

            “We can pay up front,” she said, hastily. The elf paused. This was most unusual for a Gertrudian. Their usual way of business was nothing upfront, and if possible, nothing later as well. “We can also pay you in cannons.”

            That did it. Four of the Gertrudian cannons, most of the complement donated by Genop, had been hidden under a collection of blankets. They were now dramatically unveiled by a pair of Hoglite guards. The mercenary’s eyes shimmered as he lovingly surveyed the shiny guns. Everyone on The Nebel stopped doing what they were doing to admire them as well.     

            Trodel elves were passionate about cannons. Almost unnaturally so. They loved being able to deal damage from a long distance and the explosions made them feel important. Very few armies, and even fewer independent mercenaries, had the privilege of fielding cannons, which gave them an elite status.    

The mercenary leader thought of the prestige his outfit would have when they rolled out the artillery. He thought of how all the other elves would react. They would bubble with jealously, which suited him better than fine. He also thought of all the previous contracts which would have been less of a hassle if saturation bombardment had been an option.    

            Hands were shaken. A deal was struck.

            The mercenaries would escort ‘Salak’s brother’ into the heart of the Talmut Empire and help him gather support. This was on the very strict condition that the elves be allowed to take the promised four cannons with them. Today. Gertrude did not object.

            The Nebel was quickly loaded up with extra provisions (at a very reasonable price), the cannons and the Champion. It was also loaded up with a few, casually dressed representatives of the Imperial Ministry and a few Hoglites. They were to quietly oversee the operation and make sure events unravelled as planned.  

The ship departed as night crept in.

            “Good luck!” called Brambles. She waved them out of the harbour.

Gertrude chuckled, maliciously. They wouldn’t be needing luck. Not when they had cannons and lies. Their first stop would be Homish. By the Minister’s reckoning, those reluctant vassals were going to be quite delighted by the sudden reincarnation of Salak’s brother. Even more so when they were offered independence in exchange for support against the ‘phoney’ Prince Salak.

The Nebel disappeared, off to pastures sandier.

One down, one to go. 

            The second mercenary group showed up later that week. They came in a small fleet of five ships that quickly became a small fleet of four ships when one of them crashed into the closed sea gates.

            “Sorry about that!” called a voice, from one of the surviving ships. Dozens of discarded sellswords floated and thrashed around the wreckage of the sinking ship. No serious effort was made to save them. “You gonna to let us in, or what?”

            The mercenary offered Gertrude, standing atop the sea gate, a crooked grin. The Princess wrinkled her nose.

            Fat chance.

            A rope slithered down from the seaward walls. 

            “Come up the rope,” called Gertrude, “just one of you.”

            The speaker’s ship came alongside the dangling rope and an ugly creature climbed his way up. A delegation of Hoglite guards awaited him at the top. He gave them a most unpleasant smile.

            “Nervous ‘bout something?” He noticed the Princess. Still smiling, he gave her an exaggerated curtsey, “Morning yer highness.”

            Gertrude frowned at the pale, greasy creature that stood hunched over before her. It was a Goblin, as was most of his crew. They usually kept to themselves in southern Crottle, though sometimes they would leave their tribes, in search of money and occasionally work.

            Not many became mercenaries. Goblins liked to distance themselves from fighting, preferably by a few hundred miles. Their favoured enemies were isolated farmers, pacifists and blind people. In the company of sheep, they were lions. In the company of anything else, they were invisible. That said, a few were brave, deluded or stupid enough to take on the warriors life. It was usually a very short life.       

            This particular Goblin group thought themselves pirates, and had the leaky, ramshackle fleet to prove it. They menaced fishing ships and lone merchant barges, on the proviso that no resistance was offered. A long harpoon was usually enough to see the back of them.

“So here’s the plan,” Gertrude leaned back in disgust as the Goblin started picking at his long pointy ear, “you are going to head on over to the Talmut Empire and burn down everything in sight.”

The Goblin leader considered his part in Gertrude’s master plan, then doubled over with laughter. “Good one!” Tears rolled down his sun scorched cheeks. “Me an’ the lads just pop on over to the desert land mess with them pointy ears! You’re a riot!” His grin slowly evaporated as it dawned on him that Gertrude was completely serious. “Hehe…you want me to head on over to the Talmut lands and start a ruckus with them?” Gertrude nodded. “Well then, er, heh, be seeing ya…”

He made it two steps towards the rope before he was clamped between two Hoglites.

“You’re going to do it,” Gertrude pointed a finger, very close to the goblin’s face. She might have prodded him to make her point, but she wouldn’t touch a goblin while wearing two layers of gloves. “You’re going to do it and you’re going to be well compensated for doing it.”    

“Attack the Talmut Empire?” said the Goblin, still being held in place, “sure why not? Is there anything else you want, while we’re in the neighbourhood? Like us to get rid of that army on your front porch? Move yer city a little down the street? The rain bother you? How about me and the lads push the damn clouds away, you know, while we’re all dreaming.”

“Listen, idiot,” said Gertrude, “I don’t know if you or the intellectual giants in your crew havenoticed this, but if the Talmut army is at my wall, what exactly do you think is at home defending their home? Its treasure and loot for the taking.”   

The Goblin shifted around awkwardly. He had noticed the Talmut army, thankfully on the other side of the wall, and it had occurred to him that this was indeed a golden opportunity to pillage those pointy eared sand dwellers, for whom he had no love.

But the voice that kept him alive longer than most Goblins suggested that when things looked too good to be true, get out while you’re still looking pretty. The Talmut Army chewed up real armies for breakfast. An ice cube would last longer in the Kobe desert than his lot.  

Gertrude noticed his hesitation and gave him a comforting smack across the face. “Listen friend,” she said, “sure they’ll have troops, but they’ll be garrison soldiers. Second rate, slow movers, and I’m not even asking you to bother them. The only people I want you to go after are the villages, the ones along the coast. This part of the coast, near the Kermish border. They’re defenceless. Even your rabble would be more than a match for them.”

“Just the villages?” said the Goblin, the deal seemed to have improved dramatically, which confused him. He was used to it going the other way. “But why though?”

“Shut up,” explained Gertrude.

The Goblin still had reservations, but after some haggling and several threats to his limbs, he came around.

“So then, we’ll ravage the desert folk, burn houses down and take things and the like,” he said, “in return, you’ll give us gold, eh? How about we do the old half now, half when the job’s done?”

Gertrude frowned. That wasn’t going to happen. If you paid a Goblin ‘half now, half later’ they would take half now and you wouldn’t see them again later. 

“I have a better idea,” she said, backhanding him, “you’ll be paid in the use of Gertrudian ships. All the empty transports in my fleet are going to follow you back to Crottle. You’re going to round up every monster and gobbo you can get on a lease, and then the lot of you will be sent to Kobe. They’ll follow you up the coast. When you’ve had your fill of plunder, we’ll send you back to your ‘homes’.”

The Goblin thought about this. The cries of Goblins still splashing around the sinking remains of his fifth ship echoed in the distance. A nagging voice in the back of his head told him this deal and this woman were not to be trusted. Another, much louder voice, told him of all the gold he would have if he rolled the dice on his own life, and the lives on everyone under his command.

The Goblin grinned and held out a hand. “Deal.”

“Excellent,” said Gertrude, not shaking his hand.

The Princess smiled to herself. Raiders for nothing! The Gertrudian merchant fleet was just sitting around anyway. Now, they would cut into the soft underbelly of the Talmut Empire and undermine Salak’s credibility and authority. The terrified masses would flock towards the Champions banner. Gertrude chuckled to herself. The precious Prince, bogged down outside Gertrudia while their countryside burned. What she wouldn’t pay to see Salak’s face when he found out!

“Revenge is a dish best served always, puffin” said Gertrude. She chortled at her own nasty joke.

The Goblin scratched his head. “What?”

“Shut up.”

#

Present day Gertrude twirled her wine.

A good vintage, at least it might be. She knew little about wine, having never drunk it for the taste.

“It’s nice to see you smiling.” Gertrude jolted. She hadn’t heard Brambles enter. “I’ll bet you’re thinking about the Champion and his grand adventure.”

Half of Gertrude’s drink had ended up on her lap. She glared at Brambles but bit back a comment. “I was thinking what a bunch of suckers those Kobe wastelanders must be to have bought that ‘he’s the rightful king’ nonsense.”

There had been a mixed reception to the sudden, and conveniently timed, return of the ‘true king’ of the Talmut Empire. Some saw it for the lie it was. Others saw it for lie it was, and went along with it anyway, purely out of self-interest. Others still did not see it for the lie it was, because they were stupid.

Opinion was divided, and soon, so was the empire. The Champion, quietly aided by the Gertrudian ministers, amassed a huge army of followers. Whole cities opened their gates to him, and every day, their numbers grew.

Those loyal to Salak could only watch as huge swaths of land rose up in open rebellion. The regional governors hadn’t the forces to restore order. They hid in their cities and sent pleas for reinforcements.

It was a total disaster.  

And then, just to add fuel to the fire, the Goblin pirates, taxied over by Gertrudian ships, were lighting up the Kobe coast, looting, burning and causing their trademarked mischief. Chaos was the order of the day, and their supposed leader, Salak, was nowhere to be seen.

The Talmut Empire was ablaze. Gertrude couldn’t be happier. She refilled her glass and then emptied it. Then did it again. And again. 

A fascinated Brambles watched on. “What are you doing?”

“Crushing a cup,” said Gertrude. She noticed the absence of comprehension on Brambles’ face. “Celebrating. We’ve caused such an uproar in Kobe that Salak will have no choice but to abandon his siege and deal with all the lovely little fires I’ve left for him at home.” She downed another glass. “He’s been outdone by yours truly. We’ve won.”  

Brambles was pleased that Gertrude was in a better mood. Who would have thought that all the grumpy Princess needed to lighten up was the total extermination of her enemies? The Mystic chuckled. These mortals were so quirky! “Can I crush a cup with you?”

Gertrude shrugged and handed her the bottle. It was almost empty.

“What happens now?” said Brambles.

“You put it to your lips and drink.”

“I meant with the elves and that?”

“Them?” Gertrude shrugged. “Who cares?  They’ll be gone soon enough. The longer they idle outside, the worse it’ll be when they get back home. They’ll probably pack up in the next few days. After that, they can do whatever the hell they want. It’ll be years before Salak, or his successor, can bother us again.”  

“So, it really is over?”

“For us it is, your Champion…” Gertrude thought very carefully about her next few words, “will take it from here. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it!”

“Yeah. Me too. Now drink up. If I can still hear your voice, it means you’re not crushing hard enough.”   

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – QUICKSAND

Not far away, Salak was also crushing a cup of wine. Unlike Gertrude, however, he was not celebrating.

“What is this?” He glared at the military report, then at the unfortunate elf who had handed it to him. The report went flying across the room, followed by a wine cup. “WHAT IS THIS!?”

Every high-ranking elf had been summoned to Kopek’s command tent. Salak had surprised them all with his arrival. Now he was in the process of terrifying them all with his presence.

“A fleet of raiders has sacked a dozen coastal villages,” Salak continued, his furious gaze swept across the room, “entire provinces are rising up in support of some bastard who has the nerve to masquerade as my brother and I understand that not only have the cannons not made one iota of headway into the enemy walls, but now the Gertrudians have somehow managed to get hold of their own damned cannons and are bombarding us back, to greater effect, so I hear!” He let the words sink in. “How could this have happened?” he said, before anyone could speak in their own defence, “on Talmut soil no less! This is an outrage without parallel, without precedent! And yet you all stand around with your thumbs in your mouths, waiting for someone to give you a solution!”

Silence reigned. At least it did until some poor fool decided to break it. 

            “The imposter,” said a young officer, fidgeting his fingers, “the one who claims to be your brother, your excellency,” Salak glared an armoury’s worth of daggers at him. The officer unwisely continued, “is there any chance that he… is your brother?”

            He tried, and failed, to sound nonchalant. Everyone in the tent could hear the quiet optimism in his voice. Everyone, including Salak.  

            The furious Prince marched up to the officer, his eyes blazing hellfire. “My brother is dead! Do you hear me? DEAD!” exploded Salak, “dead! dead! dead! dead! DEAD!” He punctuated each ‘dead’ by slamming his fist down on the map table. “Every elf here can be damned assured that he is dead. How sure am I? I would stake each and every one of your damned lives on it!”

            The officers hung their heads in shame. Salak, lacking his wine cup, drunk directly out of his bottle. Finding it now empty, he disposed of it by hurling it to the floor.

            “And if that wasn’t enough,” he said, as his anger regrouped, “you now have the balls to tell me that we have no adequate means of entering the city?”

            Kopek opened his mouth to speak.

            “Shut up!” screamed Salak, “one hundred years of military service, the largest army on the three continents and you still can’t break into the world’s biggest homeless shelter?”

            He tapped his fingers against the table. This couldn’t be happening. The homeland burned. The pretender, whoever the bastard was, had managed to gain the support of Homish, and there was word that Jargot was turning a blind eye as their own people flocked to his banner.  

            Most damning of all was that even Talmut elves were buying into the narrative. Talmut elves! His own flesh and blood. Brothers and sisters. Not just villages, but companies of soldiers and their officers. This coupled with the raiding parties that plagued the Kobe coastline, and things couldn’t be worse.

            Meanwhile, his glorious army was here, wasting away in a bog. The field hospitals were already overrun with elves coming down with the local rot, as well as various cold related maladies. The cannons still pounded away, for the good it did. And then there was the rain.

The endless, damned, rain.

            “I will personally hang every last traitor when we get back,” muttered Salak, “that they have the nerve to turn against me…”

            “We’re returning, your excellency?” said Kopek.

            Kopek wanted it. The officers wanted it. The soldiers wanted it. Even Salak wanted it. They all wanted to leave this watery graveyard and go home, even if said home was currently on fire.

            But go home a failure?

            What would the people of Kobe think? What would the Trodel-Borns think? A failed campaign was no way to start a regime. His enemies would be emboldened and his reputation forever tainted. They would think the Talmut Empire weak. A dozen fresh enemies would test him now, from outside and within.

Salak sighed.

This was an unmitigated catastrophe. If he could but have his time again…   

            “General,” he said at last, “what are our current prospects against the Gertrudians?”

            “Low,” said Kopek, “assuming your excellency wishes for a decisive end to this conflict, we have no recourse but for a frontal assault.”

            “And the likeliness of success?”

            “Low.”

            “Of course it’s bloody low!” snapped Salak, more to himself than anyone else. He drummed his fingers again. “Make preparations.”

“For what, your excellency?”

“I don’t know! Just make preparations!” said Salak, “I’ll tell you what they are for later.”

He stormed out of the tent, ignoring the saluting guards, and sloshed his way through the camp. Damp, tatty tents flapped in the wind. Elves and men huddled under what shelter they could find. Some were desperately trying to repair the holes that were appearing in their refuge of choice.

Salak felt his heart sink. Then he cursed as mud sept through his silky shoes. 

            Godforsaken place.

            The Prince splashed his way to the trenches, away from the camp proper. A picket of elven soldiers sat around a small fire, barely kept alive in the rain. They didn’t recognise Salak in the dark and continued to chat amongst themselves.

            Salak couldn’t hear what they were saying. He imagined that they were gossiping about him and what a complete failure his campaign had been. The feeling left him cold, worse than what the Gertrudian rain could do. The soldiers were actually talking about the best way to cook a rabbit in torrential weather, but Salak didn’t know that.          

The elven cannons, now under temporary shelter, continued to sporadically fire at the Gertrudians, who very occasionally fired back with their own two cannons. Neither side seemed particularly invested. Something blasted into the nearby ground, sending up a small shower of mud and slime. The soldiers didn’t even flinch. Salak assumed they were used to it. How in God’s name could anyone get used to this place. Looking around the marshland, Salak felt like he was seeing it for the first horrid time.    

Dead trees, dark thunderclouds, the biting cold. What was he even doing here? Destroying an ancient enemy, he reminded himself. Purging his map of the unruly grey blotch of the Gertrudian remnant. It seemed so simple, but nothing’s ever simple with a Gertrudian.   

What a fantastic opportunity wasted. He kicked himself, thinking again what he would have done differently. He wouldn’t have brought painters, but umbrellas, and enough engineers to build a fleet of battering rams and siege towers. He would have overwhelmed those rats before they knew he was coming. But the chance was gone, and gone forever. What was there left to do? Run home and accept the people’s judgement or stay here and try to eke out a victory. There was no sure answer. Not anymore.

Salak looked to the skies, the dark, cloudy, all-round miserable skies, and clasped his hands in prayer.

“Beloved Sasha, mighty creator and wise liege of all you survey. Grant me your infinite patience, that I might deliver to the faithful final victory against the misguided heathen and the crazed mass.”

            Salak waited. Nothing happened.

He prayed again, and again, with similar words. He made every beseechment he could think of, promised great things and noble deeds should Sasha grant his wish. However he begged, and whatever he pledged, there was no response.    

Salak sighed. Even God had abandoned him. He shouldn’t have been surprised. His head low, he turned to make his way back to camp. That’s when the heavens roared, freezing Salak in place.  

Thunder bellowed and lightning ripped from the skies. All at once, bolt after bolt danced around Gertrudia, as if bombarding it from above. Salak stood awestruck. The heavens were striking Gertrudia itself.  

“Lightning?” He mouthed the words. “To strike like…lightning?”  

This was it. Salak’s eyes widened in realisation. Gertrudia could be destroyed. Must be destroyed. Heaven had spoken. Heaven would be obeyed. 

In the lightning’s glow, the soldiers on picket finally realised the curious sky gazing stranger happened to be their esteemed leader. They all stood up at attention.

“This is it,” said Salak, ignoring the soldiers, “this is it…”

The soldiers glanced at one another. “Your excellency?” said their leader.  

“God is with us,” said Salak, under his breath. Then he shouted, “heaven fights with us! We will strike… like lightning!”

He punched a fist into the sky and then, without another word, took off running, back to camp. The soldiers, still at attention, watched him disappear into the darkness.

“What was that about?” said one.

The only response came from Gertrudia, in the form of a cannonball. It landed heavily in a nearby pool of water, which showered the soldiers in a wave of mud and slimy water. 

The campfire went out.

CHAPTER NINETEEN – THE LAST DROP

It was morning.

The sun was shining, the birds were singing and Gertrude wanted to die.

“Arghhhhhh…” she said, into a bucket. Her head felt like an egg blasted by a cannon. Incidentally, real cannons were still being fired outside. Every time they did, Gertrude felt her soul vibrate around her skull. “Why?” She wanted to throw up. Then she did. “Why…?” The throne rooms doors swung open. It was Brambles. Gertrude’s bloodshot eyes widened. “Oh God, why?”

“Because we were crushing.” Brambles was, infuriatingly, distinctly not hung-over. “I think we did it pretty well.”

“You’re not in agony, so I did it better.” Gertrude’s imaginary victory brought her little reprieve, as a cannon fired. The Princess grabbed her head, willing it to be banished of all sound. What had she done to deserve this? “Oh God, take me now…”

“By the way, I have been reading the stars recently,” said Brambles, “would you like to hear what they have to say?”

“I can honestly say I’d rather…”  

“In the dawn of the blood moon…”

Gertrude wailed like a dying animal while Brambles prattled on.  

“…you shall be placed in a position of great calamity today, though it can be easily sidestepped if you listen to your…”    

Oh God, when will it end? Gertrude watched the Mystic’s mouth flap open and shut. She tried to block out every syllable, but they were coming thick and fast.   

This was supposed to be a moment of final victory. 

She had done it. Against all odds, she had done it. History would sing Gertrudia’s praise, however reluctantly. Gertrude alone could say that she had defeated the oh so mighty Talmut Empire. And yet, amazingly, Brambles had turned this moment of ultimate triumph into a miserable collection of noise, pain and headaches. And this was all before the Minister burst into the room.

“Your highness!”

Gertrude stopped him with a glare of a particularly deathly intensity. Brambles continued to speak in the background.

…dig one grave instead of two. It can be all avoided if you step to the left when you hear the…

“This had better be pretty goddamn important!” barked Gertrude.

“The elves are standing to and forming up,” said the Minister, “they are preparing to attack. All of them.”

To Gertrude, these words had the effect of a pot of hot coffee. Some poured down her throat, the rest onto her face. The previously victoriously Princess crumbled onto her throne. “That’s pretty goddamn important…”  

#

The church bells, which doubled as alarm bells, were still ringing when Gertrude arrived. The defenders were scuttling around, dragging buckets of rocks and water here and pushing bundles of improvised javelins there. Halflings shoved boxes up against the battlements, so they could see what was going on. Someone tried to sell pilfered weapons. Through the madness, everyone prepared for the coming tide.

Gertrude swayed uneasily. She felt sick; mind, body and soul.

Brambles gave her an unwelcome pat on the back. “It’s a nice day for it.”

No it wasn’t. There was no rain, but an overwatch of dark clouds and rumbles of thunder were promising to amend that apparent oversight. The air was frozen and the breeze unpleasant. It was a terrible day to die for your country.

Gertrude surveyed her forces one last time. They were in their usual places with most deployed on the low wall. The extra pair of months had given the Minister and Rost extra time to round up more malingers and broomsticks for the garrison. No one was being paid in anything, save the invaluable promise of not being executed the moment the elves left. The two cannons had been placed on the high wall, beneath a large number of tiny umbrellas. The crews, hastily trained in their art, fired rounds that alternated between missing and misfiring.    

Gertrude, and her entourage, took their places on the highest wall.  

The Talmut Army stood before them. They weren’t in neat little parade lines this time. Their battalions were arranged into assault groups, with ladders and long, wooden battering rams dispersed within their ranks. Their uniforms were tattered and their faces long, but Gertrude couldn’t see that.

What she could see was that there were thousands of them, and they meant business this time.

Gertrude spotted Salak, atop his white horse. He was having a rather animated conversation with that huge officer who followed him everywhere, and what appeared to be a priest. Salak gesticulated wildly, occasionally pointing at the sky.

He was wearing a fairly unremarkable suit of chainmail. Something about that sent a chill down Gertrude’s spine.   

“Are you going to do a speech?” Brambles smiled the way normal people just didn’t before a major battle.

“No, that would be stupid,” answered Gertrude. She had to grab on the crenellations just to remain upright.  

“Your highness,” said the Minister, “perhaps this would be an ideal time to share some words of encouragement with Gertrudia’s stout defenders. To let them know that your thoughts are with them.”

Gertrude was thinking about them. Specifically, she was thinking about how she wished a real army was here instead of them. She wasn’t sure revealing this fun fact would improve anyone’s mood.  

“Outstanding idea!” bellowed Rost. He, and his chair, were nearby. “Nothing like the kind word of a lady to put fire into the hearts of men!”

That wasn’t going to happen. Besides, most of the troops appeared to be halflings. Gertrude wrinkled her nose at the thought of it.

“I…” Gertrude groaned. She could still feel her stomach having a war of its own. Climbing the spiral staircase to the inner wall battlements had been a difficult enough assignment for the still thoroughly hung-over Gertrude. The still ringing alarm bells (being operated by people who didn’t want to be anywhere near the battle) was not at all helping.  Shouting coherent words of encouragement, loud enough for the city to hear, was something of a tall order. The Princess felt rancid just thinking about it. “I’m not sure…” was as far as she got before she coughed up her stomach.

            The Minister offered her a look of genuine affected sympathy.   

“It is not a problem, your highness,” He produced a speaking trumpet. “Simply tell me what you wish to say, and I shall say it.”

“That could work,” said Gertrude. If I knew a damn thing about making inspiration speeches. She couldn’t make pleasant conversation, let alone intentionally inspire several thousand men and halflings to die for a plague pit.

“If your highness omits anything, I shall simply say it as you meant to say it.”

“Well then…” said Gertrude, through gritted teeth, “I guess there’s no goddamn reason not to do a speech.” 

“I can’t wait!” Brambles smiled from ear to ear. A big speech before the big battle at end? What a pleasure!

“Yeah, it’s my privilege,” growled Gertrude. She surveyed the tattered rabble before her, as well as the tattered rabble about to attack them. “I’m really glad the rest of the world can’t see this.”

“Whenever your highness is ready,” said the Minister. He raised the speaking trumpet to his lips. A few heads on the lower walls turned their way in expectation.

I hope those expectations are low, thought Gertrude.

She coughed into her hand, to clear her throat. It turned into a barking cough which eventually died down into a wheeze. “Right…er…” She composed herself as best she could, which wasn’t much. “Okay, so…”

Her mind went blank. What the hell should she say? She tried to think of something encouraging. Her brain stalled. That was unfamiliar territory. She settled for inoffensive. “Good morning, everyone…”

“Her most royal highness…” said the Minister, his voice carrying over the city, “bids her most enthusiastic salutations!”

“Yeah…so, er… we need to fight the elves and… that…”

“Upon the outskirts of our most holy city linger the savage, the snake, the barbarian, poised to strike your homes, your families, your very God!”

“If everyone could fight hard…” she coughed into a hand, “that would be great…”

“Each man need fight as though he were an army, each metre need be defended though it were our last. We must show no mercy and no quarter. Our pledge is victory or death!”

“Is it?” spluttered Gertrude, “anyway…” she coughed, “stand together, win and… er…”

“No elf shall climb this wall! No elf shall defy this city! We shall take not one step backwards! Brothers…” the Minister raised a fist into the sky “…Gertrudia holds!”

A cheer went up. The people, and half people, clapped and raised their fists. Weapons were banged against other weapons. Gertrude’s apparent speech had hit the mark. 

“Great speech,” said Brambles, to Gertrude.

“I agree, your highness,” said the Minister.

Before Gertrude could admonish either one of them, a cry went up from the other side of the battlefield. The elves were advancing. Gertrude couldn’t take her eyes off it. So many bodies moving at once. Towards her. She even forgot about her headache.

“Oh God.” There were so many of them. So very many of them. Thousands and thousands coming straight for her. Her specifically. She felt her knees start to wobble. Even atop the highest wall, she could feel it. All in one moment, the impenetrable city became an inescapable tomb. “Oh God,” Her bones shivered. So did the rest of her. “This can’t be happening.”

Despite everything she had done, those days of setbacks and agony, those hours of deep contemplation, her masterful counterattack, hitting her head against a pillar, it was just a dream, a silly dream about to fall to pieces right before her eyes.

It was happening!

Happening now!

“Oh God!”

Amidst her terror, she felt a hand fall on her shoulders. It belonged to Brambles, who gave Gertrude a sympathetic look, the type that Gertrude despised. “Bit nervous?”   

“Nervous?” Gertrude wasn’t nervous. She was terrified. Terrified and angry. Terrified that she was about to die and angry that she was terrified. This realisation roused a powerful feeling inside of her, one that overrode everything else, even her terrible stomach cramps. The feeling coursed through her veins and filled her heart and soul.

Rage.

Burning rage at Salak, his stupid Empire, his stupid army and most of all, his stupid, stupid face. Rage that a pathetic, badly dressed buffoon like him could arrange something that genuinely terrified her.

The timing was excellent. She reached maximum fury just as the first of the Talmut ladders were hitting the low wall. The cries of the elvish assault teams mingled with the thump of wood on steel as the battering rams hit the main gates.

The battle had begun.

“Drive them back!” Gertrude, red faced and shaking, sprung to life. Her hands turned white as she gripped the edge of the fortifications. “Smash them ya fools! Smash them!” She leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening.

“Your highness,” said the Minister. His tone conveyed, quite clearly, that he didn’t consider this the proper battle etiquette for a princess. “Might I suggest…”

“Kill them you apes!” cried Gertrude. “Kill every last one of em’!”

She could see her forces hurling an endless barrage of broomsticks, as well as dropping rocks, rolling pins and other assorted junk at the invaders. Ladders were thrown against the wall and a desperate tug-of-war style struggle emerged as the defenders tried to push them back.

“Don’t let them take the walls you gutter-borns!” shouted Gertrude. She waved a fist around. “Send them back! Send them all to hell!”

No one listened. They couldn’t. The battle was raging, and Gertrude’s voice was lost amongst thousands of screaming combatants. Gertrude stumbled up and down the wall, cursing all the way, trying to find a decent vantage point. Her entourage followed her as best they could.

“Uh, Gertrude,” called Brambles, her robes dragging under her feet, “don’t forget to…”

“I can’t see anything…” muttered Gertrude. The invaders were invisible. The walls were in the way. She rounded on the Minister. “What do you see?”

“Your highness…”

The Minister was also unable to see through solid masonry. Gertrude shook her head in frustration. She was so sick of relying on others! Bounding further along the wall, the Princess came to a halt in the shadow of tall, unoccupied tower. There, she scanned the battlefield. The enemy didn’t appear to have made any headway. Then again, the fight had only lasted about a minute.  

“Come on you dumb bastards!” screamed Gertrude. “Push them back!”

“Hey… Gertrude! Gertie?” panted Brambles. She doubled over from all the jogging around. “Look out… for the…”

She was drowned out by a familiar roar. A cannonball shrieked through the air and smashed itself against the inner wall.

The Talmut artillery had opened up. The Gertrudian cannons responded in kind. They blasted away at one another. Gertrude ignored them too. They seemed to be doing more damage to the foliage than anything else.  

“Don’t give them an inch. Smash them you cowards! Smash them!”

From the corner of her eye, Gertrude could see Brambles waving her arms around, still trying to get her attention. She pretended not to see her. Something else had caught her eye. A Talmut helmet, peeking over the low walls.

An invader had made it to the walls!  

They’re here!

“Drive them back you stupid cowards!” Gertrude howled. She pounded the battlements with her fists. “Drive. Them. Ba…”

An explosion cut her off. A cannonball had struck the nearby tower. Much of the Gertrudian walls had suffered from neglect the past few years. This tower, so far away from the outer wall, had not experienced any of the recent, and frantic efforts at repair. Something gave, and the tower started to wobble. Stone and granite rained downwards, first in small pieces, then much larger ones. Within moments, the whole wretched thing came tumbling down. 

A surprised Gertrude looked up, just in time to see a falling brick, about the size of a desk, shortly before it caved in her skull. 

Then she saw nothing.

#

Meanwhile, a few miles west, Salak wasn’t having a very good day either.

“Come on, come on,” he kept saying. It was something between a mantra and a prayer. Whatever it was, it wasn’t working. All along the mighty Gertrudian walls, his soldiers were floundering.

He didn’t want to believe it, but it was right in front of him.

Another ladder buckled. Most of them were unstable. The Gertrudian timber was inferior and hollow. The ladder collapsed into pieces and its unfortunate climbers tumbled down onto their comrades waiting below in the ditch.     

The invaders who managed to stay upright were being pelted with an endless supply of missiles. Javelins, sharp sticks, rocks and a curious collection of tickets, souvenirs and knick-knacks rained down on them as they made their ascent. This was followed by actual rain, and then hail. 

The attack had stalled, and stalled terribly. Thousands of elves milled around the base of the low wall, awaiting their turn to climb the rickety ladders and fall back down again. No one had managed to mount the battlements and stay there. The few who got close were mobbed by Gertrudian defenders, and thrown back down.

The battering rams fared no better.

Made of the same worthless trees, they hadn’t made any noticeable impression on the numerous gates they were pounding. The elves forced to lug them along, quickly tired themselves out. More than a few of them quietly dropped their wooden loads and pretended to be with the ladder crews, or dead.    

At Kopek’s orders, the cannons had been fired at the higher walls, in the hope they could pick off a few defenders. They couldn’t aim at the low walls for fear of hitting their own troops, who were suffering enough as it was. Most of the shots went high. A few slammed into the inner wall, to no noticeable effect. Apart from one Gertrudian tower collapsing, the effort seemed entirely wasted.

Casualties were mounting. The wounded were being dragged back to camp. There must have been hundreds, soon to be a thousand. A stream of troops with crushed helmets, broken bones and severely ruptured egos, crawled their way back to safety.

Salak’s grand attack. They hadn’t even made it past the first wall.

The first of the three walls.

The lowest wall.

The easy wall.

The huge behemoth of the largest wall still loomed in the distance. It might as well have been on the moon, thought Salak. They would never get there. The Talmut troops continued to slosh around in the muck, hiding underneath their shields as the Gertrudians rained down a seemingly infinite supply of garbage onto their heads.

The light behind Salak’s eyes slowly flickered into nothingness.  

It was over

In the distance, someone cried out as a bucketful of gravy holders landed on his head. The Prince sighed. There were more waves of troops waiting, but for what? There was nothing for it.   

“Kopek.”

“Your excellency.” 

“We’re leaving.”

“Your excellency?”

“Kobe burns. We leave at once.” Salak’s gaze sank towards the mud. “Organise…this,” he gave a vague gesture towards the unfolding catastrophe, “do as you see fit, just… do it. As quickly as possible.”

Kopek answered, but Salak didn’t stay to listen. He turned his horse and trotted his way back to camp. His entourage made to join him, but he waved them off.

He needed to be alone. His thoughts were many.  

Opportunities lost.

Dangers ahead.

Various swear words.

He thought of Kobe, once proud and strong now fractured and desperate, it’s future far from secure. He would return to a disaster, one of his own making. 

The realisation stung him.    

He glanced over his shoulder. Kopek had made the arrangements. Flags were waved; trumpets were sounded. The elves were in full retreat, limping their way back to safety.  Salak cringed as he heard the defenders cheering their flight.

The audacity.

What had they won? The honour of staying in this dead country? With its endless rain and mud? What type of scum would consider this a victory? The Prince snorted. Trodel-Borns, that’s who. To think that any fool would actually fight for a place like this.

Madness. Total madness.

The Prince glared at Gertrudia. That wretched hive! Let them have this place. It seemed a worse punishment than anything else he could think of. He would leave this vile place and go back home, where everything would be put right. Kopek would see to that. He would have a free hand to see to that. Order would be restored and the traitors would make for a fine art display.

Everything would be fine.

Just as soon as he left this muddy hellhole.

CHAPTER TWENTY – GONE, BUT FORGOTTEN

            Gertrudia was alive with music. The city’s centre had been overrun by celebration and revellers. From balconies and the rooftops, the people sang and cheered. What food there was, was eagerly shared. Streamers and flower petals were hurled through the air. The festival had been going on for over a week, and showed no sign of stopping soon.  

            No one could believe it. They had survived! They had won!

            Not only had they beaten back a dreaded foe that had not known defeat in decades, but that same enemy’s homeland was being put to the torch. News had quickly spread of the devastation being wrought from inside the Talmut Empire, rebels and pretenders running amok. The Gertrudians (along with most of Trodel) couldn’t have been happier.

Now, the desert invaders, who had marched here so confidently, were crawling back to their ruined homes on their hands and knees. It was a miracle beyond miracles, and everyone knew exactly who to thank.

            “We offer thanks to Tusko!” came the cry from every street corner. “He looked upon them, and they were scattered!”

            They screamed his praise in ecstasy. God was with them and God was good. Gertrudia was blessed, and invincible. They feasted, drank, gambled, drank, and accidentally burned down several districts, all while celebrating their greatest champion, Tusko.  

            Meanwhile, back at the palace, it was business as usual.

            “This festival has gone on long enough, your highness.” The Minister rubbed his forehead. The dreadful racket could even be heard here. “Precious economic time is being squandered. Surely we should rein in the herd and get them back to work?”

            Gertrude didn’t respond. She was dead, so this was hardly surprising.

            “The people have worked very hard the last couple of weeks,” said Brambles, “don’t you think they deserve a little holiday?”

            The Minister folded his arms. “Now I’m quite sure that’s not what she said.”

            “Not the words, but certainly the spirit,” said Brambles.

            She gave the Minister a winning smile that absolutely failed to win him over.

“What did her highness actually say?” said the Minister.

“Well,” said Brambles. Gertrude had said some very crude things, the gist of which suggested the Minister should do as he was damn well told. Brambles conveyed this as best she could, offering an apologetic shrug. “She also asked for you to go get her more chalk. She apparently has a night of writing in mind.”

The Minister withheld a sigh. “Very well, your highness.”

            He gave a stiff bow and marched off to carry out his dead monarchs’ orders. Gertrude, whose mangled body was propped up on her throne, didn’t respond. This was not unusual, as she was still dead. For the most part at least. It was a complicated affair.

            When the falling pieces of tower had struck Gertrude’s head, most people would have been killed outright, but by a million to one chance Gertrude survived. She fell into a deep coma, the type that you don’t wake up from. Her body lived, albeit it in a comatose state. Her heart was beating and her lungs still breathed. Her mind, however, was a mess, even more so than usual. It had been crushed by the debris. She couldn’t wake up or communicate and there was no way, magic or otherwise, to reverse it. 

            The powers that be decided that, given the circumstances, to just let her soul move on to the next life, while the earthly body was left where it was as an empty shell. It was a peculiar arrangement, as its beneficiary was more than happy to point out.

            “I’m still angry about this,” said Gertrude. She waited while Brambles intercepted the words though a Ouija board. “The afterlife is garbage.”

            “I can certainly see why you would be angry,” said Brambles, “but I hope one day you’ll can see the bright side of all this. Have you had a chance to relax? Have you made any friends?”

            “I’ve spent the last week meeting new people,” said Gertrude, “it’s nothing but agony. The other Gertrudes are driving me crazy.”  

            In the great afterlife, up amongst heavenly song, and fluffy clouds, Gertrude had been introduced to every other Gertrude in her family line. She hated all of them. Gertrude III was a hopeless gossip. Gertrude VIII kept talking when her mouth was full. Gertrude XI wouldn’t shut up about her pets.

The list went on.

            Gertrude I was the worst of them. She wouldn’t leave Gertrude alone, constantly following her around, excitedly babbling away in a language Gertrude couldn’t understand, offering her things to drink.

            “I hate it here.”

            “I’m really sorry,” said Brambles, “I really wish there was something I could do for you.”

            “Me too,” said Gertrude, she gave Gertrude I the ‘go away’ wave when the latter approached with yet another bottle of wine and plate of cheese. “Is the city still standing up?”

            “They’re still celebrating,” said Brambles, “as you said, they deserve it.”

            Gertrude hadn’t worded it like that, but she did allow it. “Let them have their fun. Next week, we begin phase two of my master scheme.”

            “Scheme?” said Brambles, intrigued.

            “We’re going to need money. I have no idea where it’s going to come from, but I need it and I’m going to get it. Once we have money, we can get things moving again. Maybe we can organise some kind of arranged marriage using my newfound fame. That would be a tricky arrangement, admittedly. But stranger things have happened within these walls.”

            Brambles beamed. “It’s nice to see you so focused on something! You’re planning to save your parents too, I’ll bet.”  

            “I suppose I’ll get around to that as well,” said Gertrude, without enthusiasm, “regardless, the people are going to have to be ready for sweeping changes. Tell them to be ready for that.”

            “What type of changes?”

            “I have no idea, just tell them to be ready for them,” said Gertrude, “fine, fine, I’ll take it! Just go away.”

            “Pardon?”

            “Not you,” said Gertrude, she was silent for a few moments, “anyway, I don’t really have anything to say at this point. Wake me up when the Minister comes back. We’re going to outline whatever the hell it is we have to do to make some money around here.”

            “Okay,” said Brambles, “it was nice speaking to you…but before I go, can I ask you something?”

            “You may.”

            “Well… you know how everyone around here is always saying that no one’s ever taken this city, right?”

            “Except for that one time.”

            “Yes! Exactly! I just have to know, what was that one time?”

            Gertrude sighed.

            “Sigh?” said Brambles.

“No, not sigh,” said Gertrude, “it’s a wretched story about how the Gertrudian Empire had its back broken, and our slide in to decay and ruin. I thought it necessary to express at least some dissatisfaction. Especially since I am surrounded by my people.”

“I see,” said Brambles, “did you tell them I said hi?”

            “I did not,” said Gertrude, “now then, find somewhere comfortable to sit, and let me tell you the miserable tale about that one time Gertrudia did actually fall.”

            Brambles bubbled. “I’m so excited!” 

            “Don’t be,” said Gertrude, “it’s not as interesting as it sounds. Though by now, I’m sure you’re used to that.” She cleared her throat, “So, some time ago, there were some people we owed a lot of money…”

THE END