The kingdom at war chapter 4 - 8

Brother Severin’s preaching—and that of his followers—works with a fervor that borders on wildfire. Serfs bowed beneath requisitions now hear in his words not merely comfort, but divine warrant. Though a handful of his most ardent supporters are quietly paid by the Dark Elves, most embrace his teaching with true zeal.

The loudest and fiercest voices drown out the cautions of the prudent. Even the parish priests can scarcely make themselves heard.

- Brother Severin is a man sent of God, Father! cries a woman in a stained apron. Where stands it written that we must labor all our days to heap silver upon our lord’s table?

- You shall have your recompense in the life everlasting, the priest answers, his voice strained before the restless crowd. Call to mind blessed Job, who endured tribulation without murmur, trusting that his reward would be granted beyond this mortal vale, in the sight of Our Lord.

- So we are to taste damnation here, an older man snaps, that we may perchance find paradise hereafter?

- And what would Job have said, shouts a bearded fellow in a torn straw hat, had he watched his children freeze come winter and be hewn down by soldiers in summer?

- Blaspheme not! the priest cries, signing himself hastily. Take heed, lest your tongues condemn your souls.

Brother Severin does not openly call for blood, yet the fire of reckoning glimmers in his speech. He speaks of purging, of cleansing, of the proud cast down and the humble raised up. He speaks of a time appointed, long foretold, when the crooked shall be made straight and the mighty laid low.

He names it the Kingdom of God drawing nigh.

The lords and the clergy, he says, have waxed fat while Christ’s flock starves. And when the shepherds grow wolves, is it not meet that the flock scatter and seek the true pasture?

His followers murmur that the hour is at hand.

Severin does little to restrain them.

He is careful, however, not to turn his words against the Dark Elves. They, too, hold power and take their share of grain—though lighter than the lord’s demand. They do not confess the true Faith. Yet Severin speaks not of them as tyrants. Perhaps he knows that the “Kingdom of God” he now proclaims would stand but briefly without their shadow at its back.

And he knows as well that to denounce them would be to die.

The Elves have considered that eventuality.

Once the region stands beneath their dominion—as the prophecy promises—they intend to reserve part of the harvest for trade. Less than Lord Godwyn required, assuredly. Yet they will not suffer a ragged preacher to unbind the peasantry from obedience when that obedience must one day serve them.

Meanwhile, the army of the serfs swells—more numerous, more emboldened.

The Elves seek, without success, some hidden means to enter the citadel through the underground passage. They will require a full assault upon Morolock to force the door that leads into the main tower.

Within the citadel, Dextere and Braddocke labor ever more fruitlessly to dissuade Lord Roderic from a grand and sweeping sortie.

Encouraged by the seeming quiet of the Elves, heartened by reports that the serfs scatter before cavalry and suffer greater loss than they inflict, urged on by Sir Malger and by the chaplain—who trembles at rumors of a heretic stirring souls—Roderic’s temper grows increasingly martial.

True, he does not command. Yet his closeness to the king’s cousin renders his voice weighty beyond his merit.

Braddocke watches with mounting unease as Lord Dextere’s resolve begins to falter.

- Mayhap, the old governor says slowly, his shoulders bowed with more than age, a measured show of force would quiet Lord Roderic’s clamor. I would not have him whisper against us in the king’s ear. His Majesty’s temper is quick, and his memory long.
He pauses, rubbing at his brow.
- We shall not ride forth in the full madness he proposes. Yet I begin to wonder whether we do too little. God knows how long these walls may stand.

- For my part, my lord, Sir Braddocke replies, voice firm and unvarnished, I hold that our present course is the sounder path. Our losses are light. We remind the serfs that we remain a power to be reckoned with. And we do not leave our defenses bare to the night. Thus may we endure—until succor comes, if it be God’s will to send it.

Dextere exhales slowly.

- I follow your reasoning as a soldier, Sir Braddocke, he says, the weariness plain in his voice. Would that we fought soldiers only. Yet we are ensnared in matters of favor and rumor as well as steel.

- I see scant profit in favor, Braddocke answers, too sharply for courtesy, if we suffer defeat—or, God preserve us, if these walls be breached.

- Aye, Dextere murmurs. Yet even the soundest fortress may fall, if its friends at court withdraw their grace.

Silence settles.

Braddocke’s jaw tightens.

If the Dark Elves gain entry to the citadel through that witless Lord Roderic’s folly, he thinks with rising heat, they shall not trouble themselves to slay him.

I shall see it done.