Nadine, who was a year my junior, was here as Duke Warren’s political stand-in. She’d really grown in the time I hadn’t seen her. I was referring to her height, of course, but also the calm composure that she hadn’t possessed before. She’d overcome her lack of skill with horses too, and was well on her way to becoming a competent rider. She was still a child in some aspects, and her barbed speech made it obvious why she’d earned the moniker “Thorn Princess,” but all of that could probably be bundled up and sold as part of her charm, if you squinted hard enough.
What stood out to me, though, was that unlike Vera-Sylvie, who came off far too unsuited for the battlefield, Nadine seemed to fit into this operation too well. She must have gotten it from her father, career soldier that he was. I wondered if Duke Warren was okay with this. He knew that young noble ladies didn’t ordinarily don armor and stand in formation, right?
That aside, Nadine would be handling several of my duties for me during the course of this conflict, such as being the port of call for any lesser nobility who wouldn’t dare bring their complaints directly to me, acting as my stand-in to be wined and dined by the nobility, and just giving the nobility attention in my name when they needed it in general. If that sounded like she’d drawn the short straw, that was because she had—albeit voluntarily. The sacerdos from earlier might’ve been the first to go to her with his complaints, but he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Honestly, I felt guilty about the whole thing.
Of course, her most significant role was to act as a hostage. Not for my sake, but Duke Warren’s—her presence was a sign from him to the other nobility that he would act in good faith.
You see, our marching column wasn’t a single army; it was a coalition of the forces belonging to the emperor’s faction. As such, Duke Warren, Count Chamneau, and Marquess Ramitead were all keeping a close eye on one another for any sign of betrayal. This wasn’t because there was any bad blood between them—it wasn’t even that any of them were being paranoid. It was the simple fact that since everyone involved was putting their lives and their families’ lives on the line, caution was the norm. Hence why, for the nobility, it was common practice to make a show of good faith in such circumstances.
Next, we came to Viscount Hervé de Cédolin, the legate of Duke Warren’s troops. He was of the same generation as the duke, and according to Nadine, had been his milk brother. And I was only just now realizing that I’d seen him before—Duke Warren had brought him as a guard the first time he’d come to the imperial capital for an audience with me. Hervé de Cédolin hadn’t spoken a word back then, which was why I hadn’t remembered him until getting this chance to examine his face in detail.
In simple terms, Duke Warren had basically sent me his version of Timona. A monumental gesture, for someone who’d seemed so lukewarm when informing me that he’d be sending me “one of his commanders.”
Hervé de Cédolin’s position of legate was, in brief, something of a mix between staff officer and stand-in commander. All of his actions, words, and commands were to be taken as if they were from Duke Warren himself, and every decision he made would be interpreted as being Duke Warren’s will. And since the duke was an imperial grand marshal, that meant that Hervé de Cédolin had the right to temporarily exercise the full authority of an imperial grand marshal too. It was he who was directing Duke Warren’s forces during this march, rather than Nadine.
While the position of legate sounded quite convenient when I described it like that, you actually didn’t see it very often. This was because responsibility for the legate’s actions would fall upon the person who had appointed them. In other words, if the viscount screwed up, Duke Warren would have to take the fall. On the other hand, that Hervé de Cédolin was a legate at all was a testament to the degree of trust between them. Hopefully, that gave you a good picture of the sheer significance of the personnel the duke had decided to send.
Duke Warren’s contribution came in at three thousand five hundred men. I was pretty sure it was the absolute maximum he’d been able to cough up, given that he still needed sufficient numbers to guard his own holdings and the imperial capital, and had several detachments holding the territory of nearby nobility. Not to mention how his duchy was at the Empire’s southern border, neighboring the kingdoms of Apraada, Benima, and Rocourt. As long as there was even a ghost of a chance that they’d try to stick their nose into this conflict, he wouldn’t be able to make cuts to his defenses.
Then we came to the individual who’d arrived last to the command tent: Arnoul de Nunvalle, commander of Count Nunvalle’s forces. Arnoul was the Minister of Finance’s son and, unlike his father, still had a full head of hair. My first impression of him had been that he was a natural-born civil officer, but now that I was getting a closer inspection, I’d have bought it if you tried to convince me he was a military clerk too. He just had that look about him. Maybe it was the apparent lack of the same iron vigor that Duke Warren seemed to have.
I wasn’t familiar with Arnoul de Nunvalle’s level of ability, but I’d heard that the mage archer unit he led was quite famous. As for Count Nunvalle’s forces, they numbered about a thousand. That seemed fair, given that he was a bureaucrat who spent all his time in the imperial capital. I’d never heard of any conflict happening in his holdings either. As I understood it, his personal forces were only at the bare minimum size required to safeguard his county. From another perspective, perhaps his lack of border disputes with other nobility had been what allowed him to remain neutral. And as a final consideration, the County of Nunvalle was technically a part of our front line against Agincarl. While there hadn’t been any developments there in that regard, it had still restricted the number of soldiers the count had been able to contribute.
Finally, standing at the far end of the table across from me was Deflotte le Moissan. Once a member of the clergy, he’d returned to secular life—though he still referred to Daniel de Piers as his mentor. Nevertheless, he lacked an official rank and position, which was why he was standing.
Once the standard agenda had finally been seen to, I directed everyone’s attention to Deflotte. “Now then, Sir Moissan. Would you care to explain to everyone your presence here?”
“But of course, to be the bearer of information, Your Majesty.” Eyes closed as always, Deflotte bowed and began his report. “The Raul army has shifted its course toward Chelán Hill. We estimate their number to be twenty thousand strong.”