Imperial Year 2514, March, Bretonnia's capital, Couronne.
The Royal Palace of the Knight King still stood resplendent. Although Ryan had spent little time there since his coronation, he had invested in its refurbishment to uphold the dignity of his status as King.
Upon his return to Bretonnia, Ryan immediately convened a meeting, formally welcoming the Obian Expedition forces back from their victorious campaign. He expressed high praise for their achievements, then summoned Regent Lawn and the leaders of the Obian Expedition.
In the grand hall, Ryan was seated on his throne, flanked by Queen Sulia, the Fay Enchantress Morgiana, and Regent Lawn. Present were also Duke Adalhard of Lyonnais, Duke Taubert of Le-Angoulême, Duke Hagen of Gisoreux, and Duke Ford of Montfort. These dukes had contributed the most to the Obian Expedition and were its primary beneficiaries. Each wore expressions of satisfaction, for the northern knightly nobles had finally tasted victory after a long series of setbacks.
Lawn's report was impressive. The expedition had amassed nearly 300,000 gold crowns worth of plunder, with an additional 100,000 gold crowns gathered by a second wave of looting before the spring planting season. According to Ryan's instructions, the spoils were divided in a 6:3:1 ratio: sixty percent went to the northern knights, thirty percent to the royal treasury, and ten percent to the southern nobles, who had provided transportation and supplies (largely on credit) but contributed fewer troops.
While the arrangement was agreed upon, each party had their own grievances. The northern nobles felt that their soldiers had fought the battles and gathered the supplies, yet they only received sixty percent. On the other hand, southern nobles led by Francois and Berchmond felt excluded from the campaign's benefits, relegated to fortress construction. They begrudged their mere ten percent share.
Sulia had also quietly voiced her concerns to Ryan, questioning why only thirty percent had been allocated to the royal treasury for what was officially a chivalric campaign.
Ryan listened to everyone's concerns with a faint smile. The desire for "fairness" was universal, yet each person's idea of fairness was relative. True fairness was elusive, but the arrangement Ryan set was reasonably balanced. His overwhelming authority ensured that, despite some complaints, everyone accepted the arrangement, especially with Morgiana's nod of approval.
Victory often smooths over grievances and conceals many issues.
Seated on his high throne, Ryan listened to the northern nobles' reports with a steady nod. Meanwhile, the Fay Enchantress Morgiana, sitting nearby, blushed as she stole glances at him, her gaze filled with an unspoken sentiment.
"So, you encountered a great many Chaos altars and signs of daemonic activity deep within Obian?" Ryan mused, puzzled. "It's unusual. During major Chaos rituals, we would expect the barbarian forces to be concentrated and at their strongest, not spread so thin that an expedition force could take them by surprise."
"Could it be that the barbarians are abandoning Obian?" suggested Duke Taubert of Le-Angoulême. His duchy had profited immensely from the plundered magical ores, precious metals, and rare minerals. "The Empire and local True Word tribes have fought the barbarians on Obian for decades. Perhaps they've finally grown weary?"
"Nonsense," grumbled Duke Adalhard of Lyonnais. "Barbarians never tire of war—they fear a lack of it!"
"Perhaps they're consolidating their forces," Adalhard proposed, hopeful. "The Vanheimlings who occupied Obian may have seen that they couldn't match our expeditionary forces, so they withdrew to their fortified strongholds in the mists, awaiting our departure."
"A new foothold?" Ryan raised an eyebrow. Despite Obian's proximity to Norsca, its climate was extremely harsh, and the corruption of Chaos made the land inhospitable. It was unlike the Badlands' Three Guardians—Altdorf, Ironhold, and Eight Peaks—which, though challenging, could support farming and livestock and had dwarven aid.
"Yes, a new foothold, perhaps called the 'Obian Guardians.' We could dispatch troops, appoint noble overseers, establish outposts, and assign soldiers to farm the land to sustain themselves," suggested Duke Ford of Montfort, one of the younger dukes, brimming with enthusiasm after the recent victory.
Ryan chuckled, recognizing the suggestion as reminiscent of the military farming colonies of his previous life. While it sounded appealing—soldiers who doubled as farmers would seem like a low-cost, self-sufficient force—he knew from history how quickly the combat readiness of such forces could decline.
"While the idea has its merits, I can assure you it isn't as feasible as it appears," Ryan explained with a laugh. "Military settlements seem practical, but in reality, their combat effectiveness diminishes rapidly. In a few years, such forces could barely defend themselves, let alone fight barbarian forces."
After giving a brief overview of the potential issues, Ryan dismissed the proposal. "The barbarians know no fear of battle and rarely retreat strategically. Their peculiar lack of presence is a strange and troubling sign."
"Lawn, Morgiana, what news of Norsca?" Ryan asked, still uneasy. "Do we have any idea what the Norscans are planning?"
"Huh? Oh, Ryan?" Morgiana, seemingly lost in thought, suddenly responded, "How does a veal stew with béchamel sauce and onion soup sound for dinner?"
"???"
"???"
The dukes looked at each other in bewilderment. Ryan blinked, bemused, while Sulia suppressed a giggle. The queen gently reminded Morgiana, "Lady Morgiana, we'll discuss dinner later. For now, His Majesty asked about Norsca's situation."
Morgiana's cheeks flushed as she quickly collected herself. "Yes, of course. I sent Clement to scout along Norsca's coastline. The barbarians have been unusually quiet, with many Norscan ports and towns seemingly peaceful. However, Clement did observe large gatherings of Norscan forces near Ice Dragon Fjord."
"Annual raids on Nordland?" Lawn remarked casually. "My sources report the same. Numerous barbarian forces are gathering at Ice Dragon Fjord. They could be planning another raid on the Empire."
Ice Dragon Fjord lies on Norsca's southern coast, almost directly across from Nordland's key northern port, Hagendorf. The explanation seemed plausible; growing up in Nordland, Ryan knew that skirmishes between Norscans and Nordlanders were perpetual.
"But something still feels off," Ryan replied, shaking his head. "Nordland and Norsca are always at odds, but such a massive concentration of forces is odd. We all know that Norscan raids are typically scattered and independent. This time, however, they're consolidating their forces and, oddly, abstaining from winter raids. We must remain vigilant."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" Lawn and the other northern dukes nodded, mindful of the threat across the sea.
"Send more scouts to uncover their true intentions," Ryan instructed. "And, Lawn, did you establish contact with the Empire and the True Word tribes on Obian as I asked?"
"Er… I did reach out to the garrison in Newland Province, and they provided a few guides for us," Lawn admitted sheepishly. Beyond requesting a few local guides and compensating them with gold, he hadn't pursued further coordination.
Ryan understood the situation well. The northern nobles had been reluctant to share any potential spoils with the Empire, especially after the success of the expedition. Ryan held his peace, then continued. "Forget it. Now that the Obian expedition is over, focus on securing more intelligence. Contact Marienburg and Nordland for information—they maintain trade with the Norscans and likely have established spy networks."
Despite frequent skirmishes, trade between Norsca, Nordland, and Marienburg had persisted, with the occasional truce broken by inevitable raids every few years.
"Also, what's the current situation in Marienburg?"
"Recently, Marienburg…"
---
Meanwhile, in the far north, within the Chaos Wastelands and the Northern Court…
Amidst the twisted landscapes and mountains, Tzeentch's Champions Tza-Zan'ech and Hal-Eye of Eternity stood before the Everchosen, Motkin, discussing how to keep the southerners off-guard.
"Lord Everchosen, the mobilization of such a large force is impossible to conceal," said Tza-Zan'ech, leaning on his crooked staff of Tzeentch, his remaining hands pointing at the map. "If we proceed recklessly, we risk alerting the southerners."
"Indeed. Despite our best efforts to hide Operation Barbarossa, the southerners have likely detected our activities along Norsca's coast and in the Wastelands," Hal-Eye of Eternity reported. "If the southern realms suspect anything, we will lose our chance to crush them before they can rally."
Motkin remained silent, his cold blue gaze hidden behind his chaotic helm, seemingly lost in thought.
Tza-Zan'ech and Hal exchanged glances. They could both sense that this Everchosen was different from his predecessors.
Previous Everchosen, upon receiving the blessings of the four gods, had mobilized armies in fiery zeal to bring destruction to the mortal realms. Yet Motkin's ambition seemed focused solely on one thing: revenge against Ostland, the von Zhukov ancestral seat, and Oleg von Zhukov.
Seeing Motkin's silence, Tza-Zan'ech prayed to Tzeentch, his mind racing with hundreds of wicked schemes, selecting one based on intuition.
For now,
the Everchosen and Tzeentch's goals aligned.
Hal spoke up. "Lord Everchosen, our preparations cannot be concealed. Attempting to do so would only arouse the southerners' suspicions. But what if we play into their expectations?"
"Suspicion would indeed hinder my revenge," Motkin replied at last. "What do you propose? Should we send envoys to negotiate?"
"Negotiation would be absurd and uncharacteristic," Tza-Zan'ech shook his head, laughing. "We, the true inheritors of the gods, bow to no one. Besides, how many treaties have the Norscans ever upheld with southerners?"
"If we do nothing, however, the southerners will surely prepare their defenses," Hal agreed. "Then again, we could instead feed them the very news they fear."
Motkin's icy gaze brightened. "Explain."
"Let the southerners discover our intentions," Hal-Eye of Eternity proposed with a devious smile. "Allow them to panic and scramble. When they're on high alert, reveal that we have no intention of attacking them. In their relief, they'll relax. Then, our opportunity comes."
"Precisely," Tza-Zan'ech added, grinning. "But what if we go one step further? We could launch a feigned raid on the dark elves of Naggaroth. That would shift the focus of the Old World, making everyone believe they are our true target."
"A brilliant diversion," Motkin approved. "Their initial terror will fade into false security, and at that moment, we shall strike."
"Oh, how deliciously thrilling! I can barely contain my excitement!" A sly, purple-clad champion entered the court, his voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm. Behind him marched an entire legion of gaudy, violet-armored warriors blessed by Slaanesh, exuding decadent energy. His luxurious golden hair flowed as he strode with an exaggerated sway. "I, too, have a suggestion, Lord Everchosen. Would you care to hear it?"
"Speak…"
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