Horizon of War Series

Chapter 198: The Paused Rhythm

The Paused Rhythm

Lansius

Tanya shouted his name, and Lansius knelt, arms outstretched as he had done many times before. Seeing this, Tanya ran toward him without hesitation, flinging herself into his embrace. They held each other tightly, warmth flooding through them despite the cold iron of his armor. Arryn stood nearby, tears streaming silently down her face as she fought to keep from breaking into sobs.

“You’ve grown,” Lansius murmured, lifting Tanya effortlessly, just as he used to. “Tell me if the armor hurts.”

“It’s fine. I don’t care. If it’s you, it’s fine,” she whispered, her voice catching in sobs as she clung to him, unfazed by the unyielding steel.

Lansius found solace in the tenderness of his family and glanced back at his entourage, who nodded with satisfied expressions. He entered alone. “Sorry for the boots—I’ve come straight from outside.”

“Please don’t worry; it’s just a wooden floor,” Arryn replied, forgetting the siege as she was too caught up in his return.

Still carrying Tanya against his chest, Lansius approached Arryn. “I’m glad to see you again. Sorry, it took so long.”

Arryn wiped her tears and forced a smile. “Are you really the same man I helped in Bellandia?”

Arryn could no longer resist; she embraced him, pulling Tanya into the hug. Their family, long scattered, was finally reunited.

“Can I get some water?” Lansius asked after a moment, his tone light to ease the tension. “And oh, that gruel is boiling over.”

Arryn let out a chuckle, wiping her tears again as she returned to the cauldron, stirring the bubbling gruel and adding more water. Meanwhile, Tanya slipped from his hold, quickly pouring water into a cup. But as she approached to offer it, she hesitated, noticing it was just a simple wooden cup—not even a pewter goblet. Meanwhile, the man before her wore the most dazzling armor she had ever seen, rivaling the finery of Lord Bengrieve and Sir Stan, whom she had only glimpsed from afar.

“What’s the matter?” Lansius asked.

Tanya shuddered, then knelt, offering the cup of water with respect. She had learned enough to know her place. “Please, accept the water, sir.”

“Tanya, you still don’t believe that I’m your brother Lans?” he asked as he gently pulled her to her feet.

Tanya looked up at him, her cheeks flushed. “I dare not call you brother.”

Arryn, still stirring the gruel, added softly, “I’m proud of you; to see you wearing such fine armor, with men-at-arms in your company, and even a gold belt buckle. It’s clear that you’re now above my humble station.”

Lansius glanced down and noticed the gold buckle for the first time; it had come with the armor. He thought back to his days as a clerk when he could barely afford a simple sword belt.

“How should we address you?” Arryn asked again, her tone polite but distant.

“Mother…” Lansius said softly, with a faint sigh, sounding just like the man they used to know. The two women giggled.

Finally, Tanya’s curiosity got the best of her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were noble-born? But I’m glad you remembered your family and home.”

“I still don’t remember.” Lansius crossed his arms, giving her a brotherly grin. “I was never noble-born.”

Tanya glanced at him, puzzled.

“I only gained all this recently.” He took a sip of the water, which tasted sweet and more refreshing than anything he’d had all week. Setting the cup down, he glanced at Arryn. “I went south on an errand, and they made me their leader,” he added, downplaying his achievements as much as he could.

Arryn and Tanya nodded, feeling much more at ease now, believing his story.

“Lower the fire a bit and come outside with me,” Lansius said. “I want to introduce you to a few people.”

Arryn and Tanya exchanged glances. “But we’re not dressed for it,” Arryn murmured, a hint of worry in her voice.

“Anything is fine. I’ll get you something better later,” Lansius reassured her, moving to the fire and helping her settle the cauldron. He extended his hand, and Arryn took it, a bit hesitant.

With Arryn at his right and Tanya at his left, Lansius led them toward the door.

“But who are they?” Tanya asked as they stepped outside.

“Just my retinue, the baroness, and Sir Stan,” Lansius replied, amused, as he pushed the door open. The golden sunset cast a warm glow over the garden, and a gentle breeze, scented by the herbs growing in the corner, was refreshing.

"Retinue? Sir Stan?" Arryn gasped, but Lansius had already guided them out to a waiting crowd of knights and attendants, with Sir Stan standing just beyond, watching with a polite, respectful smile.

Arryn and Tanya curtsied, feeling the weight of so many eyes upon them.

“Gentlemen, this is Arryn and her daughter, Tanya. They are the family who saved me when I was nothing but a lost soul in Arvena. I owe them everything, and now that we are reunited, I ask that you hold them in the same esteem you would to me or my House.”

“Yes, my lord,” came the firm yet gladdened response from Sir Harold, Sir Michael, Margo, and the guards. Others in attendance also offered murmurs of approval, overpowering the gasps from the servants and maids watching from afar. Some exchanged pleased glances, while others simply nodded, smiles breaking through as they shared in the joy of this reunion.

“A lord?” Arryn covered her mouth in surprise, while Tanya grinned and whispered to her mother, “Mother, he's rich!”

Lansius chuckled, overhearing her. He said to them, “I promise to treat you as family. Unless you’d rather stay somewhere else, please join me and let me repay some of the hospitality you’ve shown me.”

Arryn could only nod, still taken aback, while Tanya found it hard to conceal her joy.

Just then, a young woman approached gracefully. Her soft, chestnut-brown hair was cut in a sleek, chin-length bob, framing her hazel eyes, which radiated with a hint of gold—beautiful, enchanting, yet carrying a hint of danger. She wore an elegant black doublet intricately embroidered with gold patterns, giving her an air of noble refinement. Her belly was noticeably rounded, suggesting she was several months pregnant, yet she still carried an arming sword at her waist.

Lansius readily extended his hand to her. “Mother,” he called to Arryn, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Audrey curtsied, and Arryn and Tanya quickly did the same.

“Mother, Tanya, please meet Lady Audrey, the baroness of Korimor, and the mother of my future children.”

Arryn and Tanya let out soft gasps, followed by joyful murmurs. Audrey smiled gently, understanding how significant the title must be. “You may not recognize me,” she began, “but I was the squire who recruited Lansius in Bellandia. So, please, there’s no need to be too formal.”

Sensing the intimacy of the moment, their retinue quietly motioned for onlookers to step back, giving them some privacy.

“Especially when we’re alone,” Lansius added with a hint of playfulness.

“We couldn’t possibly do that,” Arryn said, clutching Tanya’s hand, who added, “Maybe we could do that with you, but not with her. She’s noble-born.”

“Well, technically, I wasn’t born noble,” Audrey reassured them, placing a protective hand over her belly. Tanya’s attention was quickly drawn to it.

“Is little Lans inside?” Tanya couldn’t resist, stepping closer to Audrey.

Audrey nodded, allowing Tanya to caress her belly while Lansius chuckled, pleased that his family was getting along well.

"Tanya, isn't it?" Audrey asked. "You have such beautiful hair. I’m truly glad to meet you properly. Lansius is always worried sick about you,” she added, earning a pleased nod from the girl.

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“Audrey,” Lansius called, and she glanced over. “We should get them out.”

Without needing to ask, Audrey understood. Although they and Cascasonne were technically allies, there were still lingering doubts about Bengrieve's motivation, and they preferred to remain in control. With a quick gesture, she signaled Margo, who approached, ready to assist.

“Good ladies, I'm Margo, your squire. My crew and I will be helping you pack.”

“But we’re needed here to cook, clean, and help,” Arryn replied.

“No worries,” Lansius assured her. “We’ll be sending more men to the castle, so there shouldn’t be an issue anymore. Help has arrived.”

...

Arryn and Tanya, with Margo’s help, went inside the hut to pack their belongings. Meanwhile, a group from the inner court approached, prompting Lansius' entourage to stand ready. Francisca and her kin, concealed under large traveling cloaks, moved closer, shielding Lansius and Audrey.

"At ease," Lansius instructed as he spotted Sir Stan and the steward walking at the head of the group.

“Lord Lansius,” Sir Stan called urgently. “I need you to see this—”

“Sir, we can’t. It’s restricted, not even accessible to all House members,” the steward interrupted, casting a wary glance.

“Our allies need to know,” Sir Stan insisted, his tone unwavering, puzzling the onlookers.

Sir Harold cleared his throat, his gaze turning predatory as he locked eyes with the steward. In his view, no one held more authority here than Lansius. Not even Bengrieve, who was, for now, merely a minor lord after losing his seneschal role.

“Master Lansius,” the old castle’s steward greeted.

“Lord Shogun,” Sir Harold corrected him firmly, gathering everyone’s attention and bringing a few satisfied smiles. “Lord Shogun of Lowlandia,” he repeated, his expression serious.

“Lord Shogun of Lowlandia,” the steward echoed, quickly amending himself.

"That’s alright,” Lansius signaled to Sir Harold, his voice calm. “So what do we—” He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes fell on the object in Sir Stan’s hands. The baronet held it vertically, gripping it in the middle as if it were an oversized staff. But wood covered only the lower half; the upper part was metal, shaped like a barrel that ended abruptly without a point.

Though there were differences in style, the overall shape and the presence of a trigger mechanism left Lansius with no doubt—he was looking at a musket. The sight struck him like a physical blow. Turning to Audrey, he said, “Can you escort Arryn and Tanya out? I’ll join you soon."

“With pleasure,” Audrey replied, noticing how serious he’d become.

Then, to the steward, Lansius said, “My family will be taking their leave.”

The steward inclined his head respectfully, a look of regret in his eyes. “I regret that I cannot provide them the hospitality they deserve. I hope they’ll forgive the circumstances.”

Lansius felt a slight grudge at why his family was treated like mere servants, but he chose to be magnanimous, reasoning that it could be another layer of protection. “We’re dealing with secret guilds and all; we can’t be too careful.”

Sir Stan handed the weapon to Sir Harold, who inspected it closely. At one point, he looked to Francisca, and the half-breed remarked, “There’s a lot of burnt residue inside. It’s a fire weapon.”

Lansius waved to Arryn, Tanya, and Audrey as they were escorted to the safety of their camp. Afterward, he turned to the others and declared, “I know it.” He struck first, gathering their attention.

Bengrieve, you bastard! How could you create something like this?

He approached and took the musket from Sir Harold, determined to investigate without raising suspicion. The steward was overly guarded, so Lansius asked casually, “Where’s the projectile ball and the powder?”

The steward swallowed hard, signaling to his men to comply with Lansius’ request.

Under the watchful eyes of Sir Harold and the others, one of the guardsmen produced a round lead ball from a small leather bag and a powder horn.

“What do you call this? A dwarven artifact?” Lansius asked casually.

“Yes, we call it that, My Lord,” the guardsman answered without hesitation.

So it wasn’t Hannei, but the Dwarves...

Deep down, he knew Hannei wasn’t capable. Furthermore, he wasn’t entirely surprised that the Dwarves had muskets; after all, he had seen their ball bearings, which indicated a mastery of precision engineering, including boring and lathing. Gunpowder-based weaponry, then, was not an unexpected development.

“My birthplace has a similar weapon,” Lansius said, making his case as he handled the musket with ease, finding similarities to large crossbows like the cranequin or windlass. He set the stock on the ground, keeping it vertical, and drew the ramrod from beneath the barrel.

He put the correct end with the cloth and pushed it into the barrel, twisting it twice before pulling it out and securing it. This step wasn't strictly necessary, but he wanted to be thorough since it wasn’t under his care. Turning to the guardsman, he took the powder horn and poured a small measure into the barrel. “Is this enough?” Lansius asked.

“Yes, that much is adequate,” the guard confirmed.

Lansius followed with the ball, then used the opposite end of the ramrod to pack everything down firmly.

He ensured the muzzle was pointed at the sky before tackling the flint-based mechanism. Though it differed in style, it was still a spring-loaded hammer. “Is this how you prime the mechanism for this one?” he asked the guardsman, who nodded, impressed.

“It’ll be ready once it’s tensioned,” the guardsman confirmed.

“No safety mechanism? No cover or anything?” Lansius asked, just in case.

The guardsman shook his head, allowing Lansius to pour a small amount of powder into the priming pan where the flintlock would strike.

Lansius raised the musket to his shoulder, feeling awkward with the cumbersome stock, far less refined than his crossbow. He aimed at an empty section of the wall where no one stood and called out, “Everyone, cover your ears. It’s going to be loud.”

He squeezed the trigger, finding it stiff and unyielding. A metallic click echoed, and then the muzzle erupted violently in a burst of fire and thick smoke. Lansius was briefly overwhelmed, enveloped by the dense smoke, but he let out a grim smile, proud that he’d managed to hold steady despite his unfamiliarity.

Despite his warning, the noise startled many of the onlookers. “Everyone alright?” he asked.

His men nodded, some visibly shaken. Lansius handed the musket back to Sir Harold, commenting, “It’s safe now. But be careful, it’s hot.”

Then Lansius turned to Sir Stan, who watched him with a satisfied, knowing grin. “Why did I have a hunch you’d know about this?”

“An old hunter in town used this to hunt big game,” Lansius replied, downplaying the musket’s significance.

He then looked to the steward, who appeared dazed, still processing what he’d just witnessed. “Steward, how many of these can you produce in a month? We’re going to need them if we’re to win back Midlandia.”

He lied. He didn’t need it. But if he treated the musket like a wonder weapon, the steward would likely guard it like treasure. By acting as if it were just another tool he was familiar with, and removing any sense of secrecy, Lansius had a better chance to extract information—and, more urgently, to acquire as many as he could.

“Lord Shogun, unfortunately, all who knew have been moved to Elandia.”

Lansius snorted, feeling a bit foolish for expecting Bengrieve to be so careless.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

“That’s him, all right—always a step ahead.” Sir Stan stroked his chin. “No wonder we brought so many blacksmiths and artisans.”

Lansius nodded and turned to the steward again. “Sir Stan’s men will be moving inside to bolster your ranks. As for me, I’ll be happy to exchange some supplies should you need them.”

"On behalf of my master, please accept my sincere gratitude," the steward said.

“Meet me in the command tent for supper," Lansius continued. "We’ll discuss our battle plan and Midlandia. And don’t forget to bring a cache of any weapons you can spare. I could use a few for a ruse.”

The steward bowed his head, giving Lansius hope that he might secure enough of the weapons to eventually manufacture them on his own.

“Wait,” Sir Stan said grimly. “We still have another problem.”

“Pardon?” Lansius asked, uncertain.

“It’s Hannei. She’s been unconscious for days.”

Lansius sighed deeply. "Sir Stan, I have a skilled healer. Please, let me take care of her."

The steward almost spoke, but Sir Stan had already given his word. "I’ll carry her myself."

Just as he spoke, a sharp metallic clanging echoed from the tower, cutting through the castle's quiet hum. The men stilled, eyes lifting toward the sound as shouts and hurried footsteps broke the silence.

“The enemy is on the move,” Sir Stan announced, his expression hardened, prompting Sir Harold and the rest of the entourage to prepare to move out.

"But at this hour?" the steward was gravely concerned.

Meanwhile, Lansius looked at the reddening sky and calmly remarked, "That's too brash."

***

New Midlandia Army Camp

The crowd stirred, their eyes wide and captivated as the three Saint Candidates appeared before them. This was usually the time for sundown mass, followed by supper. But today, tension hung heavy in the air. News of new enemies advancing from the south had spread, their overwhelming numbers striking fear into the minds and souls of the gathered faithful.

Sensing the growing unease, the Saint Candidates had decreed a fast, forbidding the evening meal. Instead, they tasked their underlings with delivering speeches to shame the crowd for their fear. For an hour, the faithful endured ruthless lectures and scathing sermons. Then, as the last glimmers of daylight bathed the camp in crimson hues, the three Saint Candidates ascended the tall wooden platform at its center, each cloaked in flowing gray robes that shimmered in the waning light.

The sunset cast a blood-red hue over them and the first Saint Candidate, a wiry figure with a voice like thunder, raised her hands to the sky before slamming them dramatically to the wooden platform. Dropping to her knees, she screamed, “Repent! Repent! Repent! I have seen salvation slipping from our grasp. We were so close, yet your fear has defiled it! All your prayers and sacrifices are now for naught!”

“Taints! Shameless taints!” the other two Saint Candidates echoed in unison, their cries ringing out like a judgmental chorus. The crowd erupted into sobs, falling to their knees in waves, their tears streaming freely as guilt and despair consumed them.

“There is no salvation for you!” the wiry Candidate continued, her voice rising with unrestrained fervor. “The Living Saint Nay will not grace your dreams, nor your deathbeds, nor will she care for your tainted, unworthy souls! No, you and your lost loved ones will never be accepted into her heaven. Instead, you’ll be condemned to be reborn in Navalnia, forever fated as slaves to the eastern humans, who will eat your sons’ livers and sell your daughters to the highest bidder!”

The words fell like a hammer blow, shattering the crowd’s composure. From the wreckage of their despair, a desperate zeal emerged. They shouted, cried, and screamed for salvation. In a dramatic display, the Saint Candidates raised their arms to the darkening skies and chanted fervent prayers, beckoning the throng to join their feverish cries.

Thousands of voices merged into one rhythmic chant. Swords and makeshift weapons clanged against shields and armor as the crowd worked themselves into a frenzy, their eyes blazing with the hope of redemption.

Inside a nearby command tent, the knight-commander watched the scene with a smirk, his staff standing behind him in uneasy silence. One officer hesitated before speaking. “Sir, with sermons like these, even our seasoned captains and lieutenants won’t be able to control them.”

The commander chuckled, dismissing the concern with a wave. “No need for that. Just let them kill anyone who isn’t one of them.”

The officer frowned, glancing back at the roaring mass of fanatics. “But… what if they can’t recognize who they’re killing in this failing light?”

The commander’s gloating smile widened. He had no intention of allowing his column to take part in this madness. “We'll let the Living Saint do her work.”

Leaning back, he savored the chaos about to unfold. Truthfully, the New Midlandian army cared little for the lives of these fanatics—they were expendable, and their deaths were even preferred. Lord Reginald had never intended to include them in his plans.

As thousands of torches lit the night, six thousand fanatics, consumed by fervor and blind zealotry, divided into three massive columns. They advanced toward the Lowlandian camp, heedless of who their enemy was or why they were there. To them, it was all irrelevant. The Living Saint Nay demanded their destruction, and they would deliver her judgment.

***