On the Road to Elspar [Book 1] (Dryad Mercenary Schoolgirl Quest)

A little rushed, again, but what can you do when you're short on time.

Hopefully, this first interlude will help fill in a few narrative gaps that I couldn't justify observing from Neianne's point of view, because she's not the center of the universe and there's no reason why she would be privy to this kind of conversation. Except, I suppose, more eavesdropping.


Interlude 1
Of Course It's a Political Problem

"This was not how they thought they would pass on."

In a way - or so Countess Lorraine Estelle Celestia of Apaloft thinks - it is fitting for Cornelia Rastangard to give the eulogy for the deceased. Even when they were children, there had always been a grim quality to the latter's personality; Cornelia becoming a Caldran mercenary - and the wars she fought abroad as one - only seemed to entrench that aspect of hers. If nothing else, however, it strengthens the gravity of her speech before a hundred apprentices and their instructors, to say nothing of the small army of soldiers and guards that have been gathered here at Faulkren.

"And though they have departed in untimely ends," continues Cornelia on the platform, the older aseri looking out at a crowd of apprentices still shaken by an attack three nights ago, "we will carry them with us in our hearts and memories through the years to come. We will remember their sacrifices as we soldier forwards. We will remember them as the cost of war, and why we fight. For our homes, for our loved ones, and for the confederation."

Still, even as Cornelia leads the academy in a long moment of quiet prayer, even as the countess joins her in placing a hand to her sternum, it's hard to keep the anger from her mind. It was bad enough when a rider rushed into her estate with dire news. An attack by Tenereian saboteurs? This far into Caldrein? And here, in the heart of Apaloft! It took a bit more than an entire day of hard riding with what soldiers and guards she could muster and spare for her to compartmentalize some of the emotions she felt. Seeing the caskets, however, threatened to undo all that.

Lorraine does her best to untie that knot deep in her stomach, that churning realization that even as the Tenereians murder in her region with impunity, that even with all the soldiers and guards she has brought with her to Faulkren, it cannot stop the war slowly grinding the confederacy towards defeat. That this - like all things in this Huntress' War - is something she can do absolutely nothing about.

There is that cold, creeping thought that all of this is somehow inevitable.

"It is done," Cornelia announces, snapping Lorraine out of her reverie, and all at once, the countess is out of that dark corner in her mind, returning to the whitestone walls and sun-kissed plains. "Take them home. Dismissed."

The apprentices and instructors disperse, some of them moving the caskets onto waiting wagons. Solemnly, Lorraine has the grace to quietly watch over the casket for a moment - a respectful gesture - before striding in the direction of Cornelia, who herself is walking down the steps to the stone platform she was standing on previously. Behind the countess, an elven lieutenant - also functioning as an honor guard at the moment - remains at a respectful distance; there's no need to protect the countess from the headmistress of Faulkren Academy.

"Nelly," calls out Lorraine, and Cornelia quickly turns around from giving instructions to one of her mercenaries responsible for sending the bodies back home. A flicker of fatigue shows on the aseri headmistress' expression, and the two childhood friends share a small hug. "Thank the Spring you're alright."

"It could've been worse," Cornelia mutters before they let go of each other. Looking around, she sighs, grimaces. "Sorry for making you ride all the way here."

"Nonsense. An attack at the heart of Apaloft? And you expect me not to be here?"

"Of course not," the headmistress sighs. After a moment, she gestures in the direction of one of the academy's larger buildings. "My office, if it pleases you?"

"After you," nods the countess agreeably.

Lorraine supposes she hoped that the extra manpower she brought with her from Arkenvale and the surrounding boroughs on short notice would ease nerves here at Faulkren. It seems like a silly thought now; the apprentices are already being protected by the deadliest warriors in Apaloft, and maybe even all of Caldrein, if Llyneyth would kindly remove the stick from its ass. Still, it's unsettling to see a hundred apprentices walking away with somber faces from a funeral.

It's not that Lorraine has never been to funerals and ceremonies of the war dead. There's just something different between watching adult soldiers on the battlefield mourning their dead and watching teenagers do the same.

"Sorry about the mess," Cornelia says over her shoulder, and Lorraine realizes they're walking past another wagon - larger, with an open top - with the corpse of a direwolf tied down to it. It isn't alone; there are other wagons just like it, as well as cadavers still on the ground, waiting to be loaded. Presumably somewhere outside academy grounds where it can be buried. "Our alchemists were doing tests with the direwolves. Between that and patrols in the area to make sure there are no more stragglers, we haven't had that much time to clean up."

Lorraine shakes her head. "It doesn't look so bad," she observes. She's being honest, at least; the direwolf corpses are a bit unsettling - there's one that looks like it was cleaved messily in half, forcing the countess to wonder how that even happened - but aside from the potholes in the courtyard where much of the fighting took place, there really aren't many signs of the aftermath of violent combat. Blood, at the very least, has been washed away. Shattered windows have not yet been replaced, but the broken glass has been swept away. There are no scars or scorch marks from magecraft, no walls that have been collapsed by sappers or siege engines. "I guessed you've cleaned things up since then. You couldn't tell there was an attacks if you didn't see all those caskets outside."

"The Tennies weren't stupid enough to go for a siege. Especially not this outfit." The headmistress grimaces a little as she leads the countess into the building and towards the stairs. "It could've been worse."

The walk up to Cornelia Rastangard's office is a familiar one, as is the sight of its interior. Contrary to her sometimes almost spartan demeanor, the aseri has always preferred a homier setting. Her office isn't particularly opulent, but nor is it particularly sparse: Red carpets, mahogany furniture that reflected a warm glow from the sunlight, filtering in from windows fitted with patterned drapes. The walls, too, are lined with bookshelves, paintings, and - often a surprise for those who step into her office for the first time - glass displays featuring her porcelain collection.

As is custom, Lorraine sets herself down on one of the cushioned armchairs across Cornelia's desk, even as the headmistress moves towards one of the cupboards. "Would you like a drink?" she asks. The liquor cabinet, then.

"That would be wonderful, yes," Lorraine exhales deeply, sinking into her seat's cushions. "Although just the one, though. I can't stay long; we still need to ride to Invermere and hopefully make it before sundown. Do you still keep your cabinet stocked with at least a Sandrian white?"

"Yup." Already, she's working the bottle of a bottle of white wine.

"Good," smiles Lorraine. "All that riding is sore on these old bones."

"You're old?" snorts Cornelia wryly as she starts pouring wine into two goblets produced from the cupboard. "What does that say about me?"

"You could lord that over me when we were children, Nelly," drawls the elven countess with a roll of her eyes. "It just makes you look like an ass if you do it now."

Ignoring the quip, Cornelia sets down the bottle and passes a goblet to Lorraine. A soft breeze passes through the open windows, and for a moment the drapes sway, soft shadows dancing across a room glowing with sunlight reflecting off stone walls. For just a moment, the two old dogs are young again, returning to more innocent times when their greatest worry was waking up to discover all the shenanigans they had partaken in while in a drunken stupor.

"To the confederacy," Lorraine smiles, raising her glass.

Cornelia clinks her goblet against her childhood friend's. "Long may it stand."

They drink, and for a moment, they let the alcohol do its work, causing just enough of a warm flush to ease tired, stress nerves. On the other side of the desk, Cornelia finally settles down into her chair, sighing in a restrained sense of content.

Then the moment passes, and they are old women at the helm of a sinking ship once more, slowly crushed by the weight of their burdens and responsibilities. The air is grim once more. "What happened?" asks Lorraine with a deep sigh of frustration. "Was this the Squirrels you sent word about?"

"As far as I can tell, yes," Cornelia grimaces. "The vanguard included disposable beasts, mostly direwolves. And then the Squirrels themselves moved in when they thought we were in disarray to try and finish the job."

"Is the damage extensive?"

The aseri steeples her fingers on her desk and considers her answer. "I wouldn't say it's an extensive amount of damage," she eventually allows, "but it's true that we were not at our best. Most of us rode out to Invermere when we heard word that there was an attack there, like we had agreed. We left behind a token guard, of course, just out of principle. And when they saw fires on the horizon where Faulkren was, they suspected - rightly - that it was a ploy to lure the last defenders out of Faulkren Academy. The enemy overplayed their hand, and we had some time to prepare. To secure the armory as best as we're able before anyone burned it down, and to wake and rally the apprentices."

"And the direwolves?"

"Drugged up and unleashed on the academy. They knew this was a suicide run for their beasts. Direwolves aren't as short-tempered as wyverns. With a wyvern, they just needed to cut it a few times before letting it loose. Direwolves know when to cut their losses and run. That's why they were drugged up, to make them more aggressive and agitated, so they wouldn't just flee."

Nodding grimly, Lorraine is quietly thought for a long moment. Then, almost in an angry spur, she takes a large swig of wine from her goblet, looking like she desperately needs it. "I counted sixteen coffins," she growls after managing to work down the alcohol. "Should I be hearing any other bad news?"

"More injured," sighs Cornelia, "some grievously. A few might not be able to continue here. Frayed nerves." She pauses, grimaces, thinks, then eventually allows in a surprisingly soft tone, "We'll pull through."

Although she looks skeptical for a moment, Lorraine eventually purses her lips; her expression softens, and she nods slowly, conceding this point. Then, quietly, "Any losses among the nobility?"

"Some injuries, no deaths."

Lorraine exhales deeply. "Lucky us." Another moment of hesitation - longer this time - and the countess actually sounds a little embarrassed when she asks, "My niece, is she...?"

"Lucille Lorraine Celestia is unharmed," Cornelia is quick to pick up where Lorraine trails off. "A few scratches, mostly from running around. Just shaken."

Her reaction is restrained, but there's a strong hint of relief and gratitude in the countess' body language. "I'll have good news for my cousin, then." She takes another swig from her goblet - emptying its contents this time - and angrily mutters, "By the Spring, what a mess."

But the headmistress offers, "Less than you'd think." She takes a slow sip from her goblet - as if leaving her childhood friend in just a moment of suspense - before elaborating, "The fact is that their attack - strategically, tactically - was not really worth the cost. They expected an easy assault, in and out, one that could seriously take out the next generation of the Faulkren warband." She scoffs. "In this, they failed miserably."

The corner of Lorraine's lips twitches. "Define 'miserably'."

"A professional group of saboteurs lose several of their number, as well as their entire pack of direwolves and other beasts that were set loose in Faulkren and Invermere. They do so in an attack where they were supposed to have an initiative, with only sixteen kills among their intended targets to show for it, and are instead beaten back by first-year apprentices." The smile on the aseri's lips is a little mirthless, but it's a smile nonetheless. "Miserably."

Lorraine considers this before nodding a bit. "It could've been worse, I suppose," she allows.

"It could've. One of my instructors overheard some of the Squirrels before she ambushed them. They apparently thought the apprentices have only been here for three, maybe four months, when they have in fact been here about twice that time. They underestimated how hard the kids would fight back."

The elven countess doesn't try very hard to hide her surprise. "Is that even possible?"

"Academic years in Tenereia generally start in November, late October at earliest, just after the major harvests."

"And here we start somewhere around July," Lorraine fills in the blanks thoughtfully. "Or August at the latest."

"Right after the political season," the headmistress confirms. "Could've been assumptions. Could've been bad intelligence. Maybe they just overlooked it. Either way, they thought they were just dealing with children who were only beginning to learn where the sharp end of a weapon is." A pause. "Which makes me think that maybe Roldharen was not aimed at us. Not our apprentices, anyways, not then. I think they were targeting the dryads there."

"Mm," intones Lorraine, although she sounds a little distracted as she looks off to a random point in the distance. Hopefully something out the window over Cornelia's shoulder. After a moment, she slowly raises from her seat on the other side of Cornelia's desk, bracing herself on the armrests and feeling all her years. "I'll send an envoy to Roldharen at some point, let them know that we've shared in their pain and that the score has been settled...somewhat." She sighs explosively. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"No," Cornelia shakes her head sympathetically. "We've already told your people about the Squirrels trying to make a mad dash back to Elspar?"

"We'll take my cavalry and run them down if we have to."

The headmistress nods. "Be certain to station your infantry at the villages you pass. Who knows if they're hiding in the wilderness again."

"If only I could," sighs Lorraine. "The footsoldiers I brought along are staying here, actually."

Cornelia blinks. "Pardon?"

"For your security," Lorraine clarifies, although in a tone that suggests this is perhaps the most obvious thing in the world.

The headmistress of Faulkren Academy pauses for a moment before declaring, "I appreciate the thought, but your guards are desperately needed elsewhere. They need to start looking for the Squirrels, defend other towns, or cut off any avenues of retreat."

"Nelly," sighs Lorraine, leaning in on the headmistress' desk, "your academy was just attacked. The guards are here to ensure your security until we fight the Squirrels and deal with them, or at the very least chase them back across the frontlines."

"They're not needed here," frowns Cornelia. "The Squirrels won't be coming back. They tried their best and we gave them a beating. We know what to expect this time, they can't fool us anymore, and they know it. They're going to try to find softer targets now, or they'll go home. Your guards can't stay here."

"It's not about soft targets, Nelly," Lorraine mutters, her tone now a little flat and frustrated. "People talk. The second I pull out the guards, you can bet at least one of your apprentices - an important - will be writing home about it."

Again, Cornelia frowns, tilting her head one way as she realizes something. "You're afraid of a political problem?" she asks.

"Of course I'm afraid of a political problem!" the countess exclaims, almost a little angrily; Cornelia has been loyal to Apaloft as a Caldran and to her personally as a friend since they were children, and entirely beyond suspicion. But like so many other aseri, for all her guile and wits, she is still always infuriatingly stubborn over issues where she isn't seeing the bigger picture, and now they're debating over how the countess of Apaloft gets to deploy her own soldiers. "Withdraw the guards? The other countesses will call for my head on a pike, and yours would follow soon after that."

"We put a hold on all letters home until the vacation starts," Cornelia decides instantly, missing the point entirely. "We say it's for security reasons, to throw off spies and any other bloody saboteurs hidden around Faulkren."

"Need I remind you," sighs Lorraine explosively and with dwindling patience, "that, among others, you have the heiresses to Houses Ravenhill and Zabanya from Lindholm under your roof? A daughter of House Treiser from Elspar? You have a Charmaine as well; how do you think the rest of the Confederacy will react if a daughter of the only dryad noble house is killed on academy grounds?"

"It won't happen," insists Cornelia, also growing impatient.

"You're being dangerously overconfident," the countess grimaces. "And it's not about whether or not it will happen, but whether or not people think it will happen."

"The children signed up for this."

"They signed up to be trained for a war," snaps Lorraine, "not be killed before they're even properly trained."

Her eyes narrowing angrily and her ears pulling back in agitation, Cornelia scowls, "You're going to let a bunch of Tenereian saboteurs get away with killing our own because you're afraid the apprentices aren't being babysitted enough?"

"No, Nelly," the countess of Apaloft says coldly, her patience running out. "You let them get away. Twice now. And maybe that couldn't be helped, but now I have to pick up the pieces, and that includes making sure the academy and its apprentices - attacked twice now - are safe." She takes the tone of a parent telling her children that her decision is final. "The guards stay."

Bolting up from her chair and slamming a fist on the table, the headmistress of Faulkren Academy - a veteran Caldran mercenary of the Faulkren warband in her own right - bellows, "Well, then you're a blind bloody fool!"

And perhaps in all their years of friendship, Lorraine forgot that Cornelia is still one of the deadliest warriors alive on the continent of Iuryis. But whatever the case, there is isn't a chill in her tone as she stands up to her childhood friend and hisses dangerously, "Careful, Cornelia. You are my dearest friend, but I am still your countess." She slams a fist on the headmistress' desk, not nearly as hard as Cornelia, but a reminder of who is actually in charge. "I will not tolerate this sort of insubordination, not even from you."

For a while, they are two women, separated by an abused mahogany desk, breathing heavily in anger, in the way that two powerful women in a nasty argument are. And for just a flicker of a moment, Lorraine wonders if Cornelia will really attempt to test that patience, to deny her decision - as her countess - to station troops at Faulkren Academy. If this fight is really about the escalate.

But Cornelia realizes better, and slowly she masters her temper. It's still there - Cornelia has never been without one - but it's forced back down just enough for the headmistress of Faulkren Academy to mutter in a tightly-controlled voice, "Yes, milady."

It's not satisfactory. Lorraine is not happy about this. But, unfortunately, this will just have to do for now. "I need to ride to Invermere," mutters Lorraine in a similarly flat voice, shaking her head a little, "see how bad things are there, maybe even organize a pursuit party." She presses her lips into a thin grim line. "If time permits it, I may return. Otherwise, I shall ride back to Arkenvale afterwards." She glares at the aseri across the desk one more time to make sure she's getting the message. "The guards stay, Cornelia."

Cornelia looks no happier than Lorraine, and that anger still simmers. But she at least has enough self-control to mutter once again in that suppressed tone, "As you wish."

Scowling with dissatisfaction - the countess is by no means happy about having to fight with the headmistress, even if she ended up getting "her way" - Lorraine whirls around where she stands and marches out the office door in angry strides, slamming shut it behind her. Cornelia doesn't call out to her, nor does Lorraine turn back around to say anything.

This isn't the first time they've fought. And they'll forgive each other, in time. It doesn't make each new fight easier, though. Nor is it remotely reassuring to have them while their losing war rages.

There's just no good solutions for political problems sometimes.

"...Auntie?"

Whirling around in restrained anger, Lorraine settles her eyes on a familiar face, a young, frightened face - family - and if only for now, she does her best to quell her anger, to push it back down, to give way to relief that, at the very least, there's one person she knows who hasn't died, even if she's not precisely the most promising of House Celestia's children.

"Lucille," murmurs Lorraine softly as she caresses her niece's face. "I'm glad to see you safe..."