Chapter 1378: Sour feelings(2)

With Red-Lip falling to the rebel cause, whatever grand strategy Habadia had envisioned regarding the civil war in Kakunia was utterly derailed. Without a reliable, well-guarded supply line, any deep invasion was a suicide march whose catastrophe would be counted in days.

And they already had some dealings with catastrophes already....

They could, in theory, leave a portion of their host behind to invest the castle and press the main body onward. It was a common enough maneuver when a fortress could safely be bypassed, though it carried the glaring, deadly risk that if the besieging force was broken, the main army’s neck was instantly snapped. Every league advanced into enemy territory became a league they would have to fight back through while starving.

And neither Zayneth nor Nibadur held the slightest doubt that the Mad Bull, or that clever Fox in Yarzat, who so many times play the hare, would find a way to cut that knot.

Allies. That was the grim, inescapable reality. They needed allies. Alone, Lavus and his narrow-shouldered bastard stood no earthly chance against the combined weight of Merelao and the Prince of Yarzat. The loyalists needed a third sword at their back, and the only realm capable of rendering such aid was the one that had lost the most in the recent fighting.

"The Crownless Prince," Zayneth began carefully, "has proven to be a deeply frustrating prospect for our diplomatic efforts, your Grace. Sorza seems to want nothing more than to wash his hands of the entire bloody mess. Every promise we lay at his feet falls on deaf ears. He grants our envoys barely five minutes before ushering them out his gates. It appears he lives in mortal terror of drawing Yarzat’s wrath down upon his head again."

"I am drowning in a sea of false men and spineless cowards!" Nibadur barked, throwing his hands up in disgust. "And Prince of Oizen, you call him? He rules whatever hollow scraps Alpheo condescended to leave him! The fox pisses on his boots and the fool calls it warm summer rain! He doesn’t even hold the city his house is named for, for the gods’ sake! He he should be called the Prince of Leftovers, since that’s all he was left with!"

Zayneth wisely chose to hold his tongue and not point out that everything that happened to him was a consequence of him being left alone to face the Fox’s wrath.

Nibadur whirled on him, his dark eyes ablaze as if he could hear his thought. "I asked you for good news, Zayneth! How is this news good for anyone but those fucking Yarzat dogs? We need Oizen’s iron in this fight! Lavus cannot command enough field strength to hold off both Yarzat and his own rebellious vassals. The few lords who still cling to his banner need to see that victory is a possibility!"

There was no poison more lethal to a cause than hopelessness. Hopelessness bred desertion, and desertion meant total defeat, which meant land requisitions, ruinous monetary fines, and stripped titles for the losers. And those were the lucky ones. For the rest, it would not be coins rolling across the floor to Merelao’s bootss, but their very heads.

Zayneth swallowed the knot in his throat. "There may yet be a way to force Oizen’s hand to our side, Your Grace."

Nibadur’s ears perked up, his sharp eyes narrowing with sudden, predatory interest. "How? You just described Sorza as a terrified turtle hiding beneath his shell."

"That he is," Zayneth conceded softly. "A turtle who refuses to stick his head out. But... he has a son."

"A child..." Nibadur murmured, the gears instantly turning behind his eyes. "A babe who would require a regent to guide his hand until he comes of age."

"And I believe we have already identified a candidate for the regency who would suit our tastes remarkably well..."

"And the mother?" Nibadur pressed. "Wouldn’t the princess-mother claim the regency by right of blood? Would she back our war?"

"History is littered with the corpses of royal mothers whose claims were swept aside by powerful uncles and ambitious lords," Zayneth replied, a cold smile touching his lips. "There is a man in Oizen who possesses both the royal blood and the raw strength to lay claim to the seat, and his ambitions mirror ours perfectly. As regent, he would rule in all but name for over a decade. Twelve years is more than enough time to use Oizen’s armies for our cause in Kakunia and outside. Better still, it gives us ample time to shape the young child-prince into a prince bowing to our wishes, we would need many of them if we manage to form our own league with yourself as the head.."

Nibadur stared at his spymaster, the dark fog hovering over his brow finally lifting into a cruel, calculated focus.He made his decision.

"Have you already opened a channel with this would-be regent?"

Zayneth offered a smooth, practiced nod. "It was my initiative, Your Grace. He is eager. Infinitely more eager than the crowned coward "

"A fine web, Zayneth," Nibadur said softly, his voice dropping into a low growl. "Except for one rather glaring obstacle. For a regency to begin, Sorza must first cease to breathe. We would have to deal with the Crownless Prince himself.Has murdering princes became so easy that it is not a trouble?Say what you will of Sorza , but cravenry is also a shield for one’s live, I can’t think he would leave himself open to occasions where a dagger could be plunged on his chest."

"Our friend in Oizen has already assured us of that," Zayneth replied. "He promises us that we shall soon have the perfect opportunity to see the Crownless Prince removed from the board entirely. And a chance to throw mud on the Yarzats besides."

That seemed to settle the restless edge in the prince’s spirit. Nibadur gave a slow, deliberate nod. "See to it."

"As Your Grace commands."

"And what of the rebel leader?" Nibadur asked, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, dark hope. "Can something be done to pluck the Mad Bull’s horns as well? Silencing Merelao would bring me far more pleasure than bending Oizen to our knee."

The brief swell of optimism in the room vanished like smoke. Zayneth cringed, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I fear our efforts have proven... deeply unsatisfactory on that front, Your Grace." He sniffed, adjusting his collar. "The man surrounds himself with loyal veterans from the Bloody Penny.Hedge knights for most part , but loyal. We have experienced extraordinary difficulty planting eyes inside his inner circle."

"Where is the bastard now, then?" Nibadur spat. "He must be drowning himself in wine, celebrating how he dealt us a crippling blow without so much as unsheathing his sword."

"He is currently en route to Yarzat, Your Grace, riding to attend Prince Alpheo’s coronation."

The mere mention of the title set Nibadur’s jaw on edge. "Coronation?BAH!’’ He exclaimed’’ He is no king, and a gold band resting on his forehead won’t wash the mud from his blood! That fat, senile fuck on the Golden Throne can spout whatever grand titles he pleases in exchange for a shower of coin, but this is the south! There are no kings here. Only princes!"

Zayneth offered a grim nod of agreement. "Indeed, Your Grace. For now, only Merelao and his rogue lords seem willing to aknowledge to this ’kingship.Most stand way to the truth.’"

The prince paced slowly toward the narrow window, staring out into the dark. "Can an... accident be arranged along the highway to Yarzat?"

Zayneth’s flat, pained expression was all the answer Nibadur needed.

"Forget it," the prince grunted, waving a heavy hand in dismissive frustration. "The brute is likely riding through the very gates of that cursed city as we speak. We needed to strike weeks ago..." He paused, his sharp mind already shifting to the broader horizon. "Alpheo was a arrogant fool to crown himself. In doing so, he has branded a target on his own back and turned every other southern prince into a sworn enemy. See if we can drag the neutral principalities into our fold. Agania, Hashandeia, Reshania... I don’t care which. We need their weight."

"I shall do my utmost, Your Grace. We might, with enough incentive, coax the Prince of Reshania to publicly denounce this false king and lend us his banners. As for Agania and Hashandeia, however... I would not hold my breath. They are content to watch the south burn from behind their walls.Their trouble with Yarzat are far away, and Hashandeia has more trouble with us than the mud prince."

"Do what you can with Reshania, then," Nibadur ordered. He caught the lingering shadow in his spymaster’s posture. "Is there something else?"

Zayneth nodded slowly. "It appears we are not the only realm sharpening steel against Yarzat, Your Grace. The Emperor has taken grave offense at how Yarzat backed the Romelian Core in the late conflict."

’’Emperor which one, weren’t there three?’’

’’Two’’ Zayneth corrected’’ One named himself king of Snow. The one I speak of is sitting on Red Rose’’

" Red Rose, you say..." Nibadur murmured, his brows knitting as he sifted through the complex web of northern bloodlines. A realization dawned on him, and he raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Wait. Isn’t there a bastard-born boy sitting that seat now?"

"You are correct, Your Grace. Though it would be far more accurate to say that it is the dark shadow standing behind the bastard that we would be dealing with, the old spymaster of the late Emperor Gratios.The boy is the mask he wears.

It seems they have come to the sensible conclusion that Yarzat must be broken if they ever hope to unify the empire under their banner. They have formally proposed an alliance."

Nibadur let out a low, doubtful hum. He deeply misliked any whisper of northern imperial unification, but in the brutal arithmetic of war, pragmatism always won out over principle.What was a future enemy if they could deal with the current one?

"An imperial hammer falling on Yarzat’s cause suit us fine, a dual invasion would in fact do wonders..." Nibadur mused. "Though for an army to march south, we would need Reshania firmly on our side. Reshania holds the border passes. See if we can negotiate passage for a Romelian host to march through their lands."

Zayneth shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his hands clasping tightly behind his back. "Ah... regarding that, Your Grace... the support the Bastard and his keeper are offering is not quite... martial in nature."

Nibadur’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"They... offer no legions," Zayneth explained carefully, cringing slightly at his liege’s darkening expression. "They offer only information. Whispers, secret ledgers, and intelligence from within Yarzat’s borders."

Nibadur pursed his thin lips, letting out a dry, bitter scoff. Information. A meager, worthless ware to trade when iron and blood were required on the field.

Yet, as he reflected on it, the the offer made a kind of sense. It was far too sweet a dream to expect a grand northern army to march to his rescue. If memory served, the Red Rose had suffered a humiliating, bloody bloodying at the hands of the Core and Yarzat, followed immediately by a nasty, brutal little civil war of their own. A short lived on, but a civil war all the same.

The bastard’s house was likely sitting on broken legs, barely able to secure their own throne, let alone march south for a war he had little direct interest in.

Nibadur let out a long, heavy sigh that rattled in his chest, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Spies and whispers," the prince muttered bitterly, shaking his head. "A wretched substitute for ten thousand spears... but as the gods have seen fit to starve us, we shall take whatever scraps fall from the table.For now we prepare on our own, whatever the bastard’s owner will give us, we’ll take. He was spymaster no?See if he can fucking put a dagger on the mud Prince’s back" He sighed and settled himself back on his seat ’’I would gladly make a statue of both the bastard and the old Ghost , if it mean having the sky blacked at the funeral pyre of that nightmare that plague us.’’