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~ Chapter 14: Army of Thieves ~

Two fundamental ingredients are required in order for war to rage on for over a hundred years, and the first one was simple; an endless pool of able bodied men willing to stand and fight for their king and country. The mothers and fathers of the Union created the men, and a swift combination of gold and propaganda created the will. The second fundamental ingredient, quite naturally, was a massive quantity of raw mineral to shape into weapons and armour. As time went on, the viscosity of the hundred had ebbed and flowed organically, as treaties and armistices were made and then broken, or as Arch-Brigadier's ordered tactical retreats. Yet no matter how peaceful any one moment may seem, no matter how many years stretched between open conflict, it remained wartime, ergo; soldiers in armour, with weapons and clothes and horses and food were, regardless of the current state of things, always required in some capacity.

Initially Lyskirk had been part of the Ferrin Union, which made things easier. Through trading with the other, albeit much smaller, kingdoms of Ciracade, the Ferrin-Lyskirk Union had managed to feed its hungry beast of a war effort without much direct effort required from those in command. The first decade had been the bloodiest, and both sides of the war burned through metal and coal like... well, a nation locked into a decade-long war with no end in sight - there was no adequate comparison to make. Astmoor had presumably levied their own required supplies from the various nations previously conquered on their island. After Lyskirk had seceded twenty years in, and Alavakia too began to grow tired of the Union and their war, things got harder. The smaller kingdoms - Nystria, Ustric, Wrethalia, and Scarden - continued to trade abundantly, as while they were founded over rich mineral deposits, their economies had grown fat and accustomed to wartime demands. However even whilst trading with the lesser nations, the newly independent Lyskirk, and the sporadically amicable Alavakia, still the Union was unable to match Astmoor's pace - many famous strategists and philosophers decried the loss of the war looming in the distance, claiming the sheer lack of resources would hamstring the Union war machine. Eventually however, Ferrin found salvation in the Inquisition, when a stalwart lizard named High Chaplain Bostric had begun finding traitors, and sending them to the Northwest Madlands. Sending them to the mines.

The Madlands were officially unclaimed, the land peppered with a small populace of nothing more than vicious savages easily brushed aside with one tactful swipe of a regiment. Huge prison quarries and mines were established throughout the wild lands, the two largest of which were named Bastion and Reicherben, with other, smaller mines popping up intermittently. The Inquisition filled the mines with treasonous bodies, and used the metal and material harvested from them to play dress-up with the Union's toy soldiers.

Presently, Roland suspected that the company before him may have been one of the worst games of dress-up and pretend he'd ever seen. The men were clothed in a patchwork excuse for a uniform, and while some were over-burdened with unnecessary plate, others had barely more than a strip of studded leather to protect them from enemy swords, and the decision of who got what appeared to be entirely arbitrary. The men were 'formed up' in the courtyard near the central garrison in The Equitánt, but they made the most minimal attempt of maintaining their lines, shivering into the chilly winter air. Some rubbed their gloved paws together heartily, blowing on their fingers. Others whined and passed about battered flasks that were definitely not standard issue, and still more had blankets or even coats wrapped around their shoulders. Roland had tried confiscating the flasks and snacks he found as he examined their number, but no matter how many he took, more always appeared, and so he had given up entirely. They were poor soldiers indeed, and he shook his head as he imagined the grim fate awaiting them.

This fucking war has got to end. How long until we run out of men, willing or otherwise, entirely? No well is endless, no coffer unending. Does Astmoor even want this bloody land anymore? Do we? He cringed as the man holding the army's standard used a corner of it to wipe his running nose, the man beside him with his trousers down and cock hanging out, sickly-yellow urine steaming on the bricks before him. Piss poor soldiers indeed.

But they were not really soldiers; they were convicts, traitors, and so-called enemies of the crown, convicted and sent to Bastion for punishment, now masquerading as a military regiment in exchange for a chance at freedom. High Chaplain Wrast, the current leader of the Inquisition, had used Roland to help legitimise this fool company, and now his name was going to be written paw-in-paw with their inevitable epitaph. Roland made his way slowly to the front of the group, sniffing back a running nose of his own, and decided he'd spent much too long standing out in the cold morning air. Tightening his coat, the cat slipped into the office embedded in the courtyard wall, sighing as he felt the gentle warmth of a smouldering hearth envelop him. The room was tight, and the desks piled high with ledgers and order forms, a kind of shared workstation for any officers busy with a regiment outside.

Staring out through a frosted window, studiously watching the men, was Third Inquisitor Claude Morgan, the reproachable snow leopard Roland had, unfortunately, been seeing more and more of as of late.

"They'll do a bang-up job, I've no doubt. Wrast will be pleased. We'll give those godless savages what-for." Morgan said, tactfully stroking his chin like the grizzled commander in some story. It sounded good enough to untrained ears, but Roland knew the snow leopard well enough to know he was mocking them. "It's all coming together, we'll have Astmoor off our shores come the end of winter."

"They're all going to die." Roland replied tiredly, giving a tacit nod to Arch Brigadier Audric, who ignored him. The Arch Brigadier was pouting like a kit, the stocky wolf-sized fox having awkwardly wedged himself into the corner nearmost the fireplace, currently working at sucking all the white out of an ivory pipe.

"I don't care a whit, it's all they're good for." Audric growled, glaring daggers at Roland as smoke puffed from his flaring nostrils. "You and your Inquisition friends wanted an army of thieves, and now you've bloody well got it, so quit whining. You may have won the fight for them in court, but mark me well, I'll be damned before you glorified torturers have any say in their deployment. This is still my army and they'll be used as I see fit; softening up Nurjan before we launch a full-scale attack on Niverron. Archers fodder, nothing more."

"Why, we wouldn't have it any other way, Arch Brigadier!" Claude Morgan exclaimed, whirling on the spot and clapping his spotted paws together. "No one is denying your command; we're merely doing our part in assisting the augmentation of its numbers. Do try your best not to lose any cities this time though, eh good chap?" His tail curled behind him, and Audric gave his best fuck-you sneer, glancing to Roland.

"And what of his lordship here, the great earl of foresight?" He asked, standing from his seat with a groan. Roland didn't appreciate the nickname court had given him, but it was better than some. "Are my men up to your impeccable standards,Lord Estoc?" He said Roland's name slowly, as if he were a witch uttering a curse.

"Nothing is ever up to Roland's standards, Arch Brigadier." Claude added, before Roland had a chance to reply. "That's why we say they're impeccable."

Audric snuffed his pipe, tipping the spent fillings into the fireplace and stowing the scrimshawed ivory in his breast pocket. "Irregardless, may I request that you please sign off on the regiment, my Lord? Since your little parlour trick in the Lord's Junction, it seems I've been saddled with your signed approval." He paused, gazing over a shoulder expectantly.

Roland went to the decanter, putting his back to Claude and Audric as he half-filled a small tumbler with brandy.

"Not to forget the king himself!" Claude chimed, revelling in Audric's disdain like a feral rolling in filth. "The Inquisition has King Niven's utmost support in this matter, and it was in fact the king that insisted to the High Chaplain that Lord Estoc sign off his approval." Roland knocked back a mouthful of brandy. None of what Claude had just said was true. In reality, Inquisitor Marsh had pressed the king's chief clerk until he relented, allowing a contract to be drawn up. "Don't forget that part, Arch-Brigadier."

Regardless, Claude would not stop reminding everyone that he and his own had the backing of the crown. The Inquisition had been skulking in the shadows for too long, and it was no surprise to Roland that they now basked in the limelight. Typical fucking torturers, always time for a show and dance number.

"Lord Estoc." Audric insisted, bristling.

"Yes, bloody hells, yes." Roland groaned, turning on the spot and sipping his brandy, two fingers pushing at the bridge of his snout. He felt the onset of one of his migraines, just beginning to push at the edges of his eyes and jaw. He took another sip. "They're a shitshow, you know it, but they'll do what you want I imagine."

"Which is die." Claude said icily, his body going still. Audric opened his mouth, thought better of it, then shut it again.

"They're fodder, said it yourself." Roland demurred, swirling his drink and thinking he should have filled it a little more. "Are they volunteers?"

"In a manner of speaking." Claude admitted, brushing dust from his leg. "Don't fret though, none of these men were convicted of high treason. Some crimes aren't worth pardoning."

"Yes of course." Audric said, trying to get his say. "Only regular treason then."

"Glad you understand, my Lord."

"I'll sign off." Roland said. "Have your clerk send it over to my office, Master D'Lange can make a note of it for me."

"My thanks." Audric said, giving the tiniest possible nod of his head. "I'll be sure to give Magister Baine your regards."

"Of course." Roland replied, watching as the fox stood with a struggling huff, before marching out of the room.

"He really does always walk as if he's on a parade ground." Claude mused, after the door to the office had clicked shut. "Do you think he gets any pleasure from the rod up his arse?"

"Appearance is everything." Roland said, turning to top up his brandy. The migraine was pulsing at him now, grinding against the joints in his skull like it was trying to shake him apart. He could feel his limbs getting weaker, and his vision blurred slightly. This would be a bad one. "Claude, I am fucking tired of this war. This regiment of traitors, fighting over Niverron, all we're doing is delaying the inevitable. Please tell me you've heard some good news regarding Breeze and your otter?"

"Nothing." Claude relented, blowing air from his rosetted cheeks. "I sent them to Niverron, to meet with a contact of mine named Gorm. He was meant to smuggle them across the blockade to Lyskirk, and then dear Erasmus was send a raven confirming they'd made it." He stopped.

"Nothing?" Roland hissed, blood running cold. The snow leopard nodded. "What have you told Lady Orianna?"

"That I heard they are making great progress."

"They could be dead." Roland said. "They're probably dead, if they were in Niverron when Nurjan attacked."

"Oh I suspect Erasmus to have a wit more sense than to wander blindly into a besieged city. Jury's out on the Witchborn." Claude countered. "Which, by the way, did you hear that fucking city was in the middle of a parade when he first launched his catapults?" Roland gave a grimace of a smile in reply; it was typical of Claude to deflect away from a subject that made him nervous. The two had a lot riding on Breeze and Erasmus, but Roland was beginning to suspect that the idea of ending a hundred-year war with a surprise fox pup had been naïve.

If I was the Emperor and I was winning as he is, I'd have her killed on sight.

Claude was still caught on Niverron. "Damned fool Governor. If he hasn't been hanged already I'll have his pelt."

"Reports say they've got some kind of powder." Roland said. "I heard it explodes when you spark it, they used to knock down the walls. How is that possible?"

Claude waved a paw dismissively. "They use weirmagic differently in the Empire, I suspect. Theirs are set on technology and warfare, while we dally about alleviating the madness plague and trading them out for soothers."

Roland set his tumbler back on the countertop. He wanted to pour another, but it wasn't worth drawing Claude's snide remarks. He crossed the room, fingering through the ledgers and reports, wondering just what the hell they were all doing. If things continued to progress as they had, then Nurjan would be at the Hieron gate in but a few months. Again, the cat wished they would get some word of Breeze and Erasmus's journey; even knowing they'd failed would be welcome now, at least that he could work with.

"Now, Pahran." Claude said, drawing a short groan of pure misery from Roland's lips. Pahran, fucking Pahran; the small island situated perfectly between the Ferrin Union and the Astmoor Empire. It'd make an excellent staging ground for a full-scale invasion, that was if it weren't a quasi-independent state vassalised to Alavakia.

"Your friend Marsh said there's talk to take it." Roland said. "That many members of the court mistake Alavakia's neutrality for cowardice."

"Oh they aren't cowards; their council would crush us if we dared take the island." And Claude let out a short titter.

"We could appeal to their sense of peace and justice?" Roland suggested lamely. "Why haven't we just asked them for it? Perhaps they could simply loan us the island, surely there's something they want."

"What they want is to stay neutral." Claude corrected, falling into the seat that Audric had occupied just a short while ago. "But I do hear rumours. It's only a matter of time until the idea is floated in the open air, and you saw how easily the king gets excited. He'll be frothing at the mouth and prick if Audric takes him a plan to end the war, forget the fact it'll start up a new one almost immediately. People are talking, saying it's high time we end this thing."

"We're fucking trying!" Roland snarled, paws balling into fists. He realised he was shaking. The inquisitor gave him a stony look.

"I'm doing my best to dig up the source of the rumours, but the High Chaplain has me busy working on this traitor situation." Claude explained, planting his boots on a small ottoman and kicking off a stack of important-looking bills. "Until we find them, it's going to be slow going. But I've been drafting a kind of document, a pledge if you will, to no further actions of violence to be committed."

"You're going to petition the king?" Roland asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Wrong!" Claude exclaimed, clapping his paws together. "You are!"

"Fuck off."

"No, listen." The snow leopard exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "I have almost no political pull, I'm not ex-career like Marsh, and I rarely spend any time in the Lord's Junction. But you, you Roland, you beautiful bastard, you're right in everyone's face right now! If you take it, the king will have no choice but to sign."

"It won't stop them." Roland breathed.

"It's a deterrent." Claude said. Roland ran a paw over his face. He hated the idea, but he couldn't think of a good reason not to agree. The truth was he despised allowing Claude to have any kind of control over him, and the bastard would never let him live it down, especially if it worked.

But am I so petty as to risk our lives on stubbornness? What's a little hatred between friends?

"Send your petition to my office, I'll have Salem draft it up and take a look. I'm committing only to a look though, Claude." Roland relented, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He wanted to leave, to go home and fall asleep and just maybe never wake up. But the idea of walking back through the cold made him want to be sick, especially with the bitter teeth of his headache gnashing at his brain.

"Ah, yes." Claude mused, pacing across the room. He watched as the regiment outside was dismantled, each of the men subsequently dismissed to their locked room. "Dear Salem."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Roland snapped.

"Do you love him?" The question was a total blindside, and Roland found himself instantly disarmed by the genuine expression on the inquisitor's face. "I know you're fucking him Roland, it's the only reason you've kept him around for so long. But... do you love him?"

"I... it doesn't matter." Roland stammered. He wasn't certain he believed in love. He felt good when he was around Salem, he felt useful and strong, like he had all the answers. The young fox was great in bed and had a stunning cock, but while Roland would never admit it, he always longed to cuddle the man just a bit longer.

"I see." Claude replied sombrely, studiously examining his claws. Roland knew what was coming next, and his stomach knotted up with the anxiety of it. "It matters to me. I regret... how we left things."

"You left me." Roland spat. His anxiety was quickly going sour, shifting from dread into anger. How dare Claude do this now? There was so much going on, and he had the nerve to come and start opening up old wounds.

A little hatred between friends, you cunt.

"I had to! But I still wonder if there's more I could have done." Claude replied. It felt strange to hear him talk genuinely, Roland was so conditioned to innuendo and mistruth. He wasn't sure he believed this now. "I just want to talk to you again Roland, like we used to, that's all. I don't understand how it all came so undone."

"Don't." Roland said, his voice husky. He pressed himself back against the countertop as Claude came closer. "Claude."

"I just wanna know if there's a chance."

"Don't push me."

"It wasn't fair!" Claude whined.

"Not fair?" Roland blanched, looking around incredulously. "Not fair? You upped and left, cut all our ties and refused to see me. You surrounded yourself with stupid, pretty boys, and flaunted them like you're a fucking peacock! How was I unfair?! I had to watch all the time, as you laughed, and joked, and had it all so fucking easy, while I'd been tossed aside like soiled luggage."

"It was all smokescreen." Claude said, frowning. "You know that. I didn't sleep with any of them. And besides, you're one to talk about stupid, pretty boys. How many mistakes has Salem made now, huh?"

"I'm warning you, stop." Roland said, standing up, his chest puffing out. He felt his hackles raise, the migraine like a continuous, rhythmic punch to the head.

"No, I won't." The snow leopard growled. "He's a sycophantic, empty-headed fucking fool and the worst part is you know it. Even I can see he'd be torn to pieces in court if you weren't shielding him all the damned time."

"Stop. I'm not doing this." Roland made to go, but Claude got in front of him.

"Yes, you are." He demanded. "All I wanted was another chance, all I wanted was for you to say you were sorry, but you couldn't even manage that you arrogant prick!"

"Me?!" Roland almost screamed it. He could barely see now, there was just pain, the alcohol in his gut making for a poor combination. His mouth ran dry, and his arms shook. "Me, apologise to you? The one thing you've never been able to fake Claude is a shred of self-fucking-awareness. Don't bother sending me anything. Piss on your petition, and shit on you." He shoved the snow leopard away, whirling on the spot and storming from the room, not bothering to slam the door behind himself.

He ignored every greeting as he marched through The Equitánt, the winter gale bashing against his face, throwing his fur out. It was infuriating, and his ire only rose as he reached the keep.

Just need to get away, to get to my office, lie down, and let this pass over. He thought, promising himself he'd do it right after a drink - he was so thirsty he hardly remembered what brandy was. The nerve of some people. Fucking Inquisition. They use my name to seize control of this disasterpiece, get their stupid fodder army, and what do I get from it? A self-pitying ex-fuck who thought he was too good to be moved on from. Roland knew he'd made mistakes with Claude, he hadn't forgotten their last conversation. Of course, of course I made some mistakes, but damn, he pushed me to it! There were tears in his eyes, and he all but shoved a clerk aside as he took the steps up to his office two-at-a-time. I showed you my insecurities and weaknesses, I said I fucking loved you, and you just kept eating away like I was never enough. Always some snide comment, always a tease, always my fucking fault for getting too worked up, huh?

He exploded into his office like a thunderstorm, slamming the door behind himself and punching straight into it. He swore as his fist bounced off, shaking the aching paw and cursing the pain lancing through his arm.

"Roland?" Salem asked from his desk, standing quickly. "Are you alright, what happened?"

"Don't talk to me." Roland hissed, stumbling over to his decanter and pouring out a shaky paw of wine. His left paw was still throbbing, and the shame of doing something so immature burned in his cheeks.

"I think maybe you don't need that." Salem cooed, coming closer. "You look--"

"It's just a migraine. Another fucking migraine." Roland said, wishing the idiot fox would just sit down. He swallowed a huge gulp of wine, sighing loudly. The worst part was Claude was right; Roland may like Salem, and like him a lot, but the boy was a fool who just wanted to play at being a lord, without comprehending any of the responsibility. He'd been shadowing Roland for more than a year and apparently learned nothing in that time besides how to get fucked by a man and spend his money.

Roland hated Claude so much, hated him for leaving, hated him for always telling him what he didn't need to hear.

"Okay, well why don't you lie--" Salem tried again, but Roland slammed his goblet on the counter, red wine sloshing over the rim. He turned, the sight of Salem's worried face infuriating him. Why? Why couldn't he be older, wiser? Why couldn't he have the knack for moving people around like Claude had?

Why can't you be more like him?

"Just shut up, Salem." Roland said, closing his eyes. The fox's mouth snapped shut with a click. "Shut up, and just let me think for once, I do all of it anyway."

"That isn't fair." The younger man said tersely, huffing. "That isn't fair at all, I do so much work for you, just so you can storm in here whenever you please, drunk and angry at Triumvirate knows what, yelling at me to shut up when I'm trying to help you?!"

Roland opened his eyes. "Stop being so immature."

"Immature!" Salem exclaimed. "You treat me like your whore, always kept waiting around for when you want somewhere warm to cum, giving me all your worst work, and all I ask is that you show me how to do what you do!"

"That's..." Roland frowned, grinding his teeth. "That's not true. I tried, you wouldn't listen."

"It is!" Salem said, tears now running down his face. "You're so awful to me, all the time!"

"Well if you weren't so fucking stupid I wouldn't have to be." Roland snapped, regretting it immediately.

"How dare--"

"Shut up Salem."

"--you speak to me like that, and I've spent all--"

"I said shut up." The pressure kept building in Roland's head, like waves slapping against a dock, Salem's words stumbling over themselves and piling up against him.

"--this time people keep saying to me I'm in your shadow--"

"Please just stop!" Roland growled, stepping closer. He just needed a minute to think. A single minute to think was that too much to ask? "Just a fucking second, for once!"

"--and not once do you ever ask how I'm doing, or even--"

"SHUT UP!" Roland roared, and suddenly his paw was around Salem's throat and the fox was slammed into the wall. Spit dribbled out Salem's mouth and he coughed in surprise, the spray hitting Roland in the face. Before he could even think, Roland had pulled him back and slammed his head into the wall again, and then again. "Shut up.Shut up. Fucking shut up for one pissing fucking minute, why doesn't anyone just shut up!"

"Please..." Salem coughed, and Roland punched him in the face. His head snapped back into the wall, a thunk sounding as his skull hit brick. Blood bubbled out from the fox's nose, and more dripped from a thin cut where his lip had been mashed against a tooth. "Roland, stop, I can't... breathe...." Salem wheezed, his throat muscles tensing.

Roland froze. His mouth fell open, and he saw what was happening. Salem had two paws around Roland's wrist, and he looked so small and weak and young pinned to the wall like that. With a shudder Roland realised he was still gripping him around the throat, and he hurriedly let go. Salem collapsed in a heap, falling to his knees, spluttering and retching on his paws and knees. He had a paw on his heaving chest, and was sucking in air with great big desperate gulps.

Staring at his shaking paws, Roland took a step back.

"Oh." He muttered, blinking through the fog, unsure how it had happened. He'd just wanted him to be quiet, his migraine had been so bad, he could barely even remember it. He knelt down next to Salem, and the fox instantly cringed away. "Oh no."

"Please don't," Salem said hoarsely.

"I won't hurt you." Roland said, his tone dull and empty. He was still in shock; he couldn't believe he'd done that. He hadn't meant to, surely the younger man could see that? "I'm sorry, Salem, I'm so sorry." He put a paw on the fox's back, but Salem shook him free.

"Don't." He said, sniffing back tears, spitting a thick wad of blood onto the floor.

"It's just, you kept talking, and I had this... I was with Claude." Roland couldn't stop talking. "And I just wanted a minute, but I drank too much, and the migraine, and I didn't mean to. Please, please I'm so, so, sorry Salem, I love you, and I didn't want to hurt you." And he pulled the fox close. After a moment he felt Salem's arms hesitantly wrap around his midsection. "I didn't mean to, you're right I've been so awful to you, I'm a terrible fucking excuse for a person."

Always sorry. A cold voice whispered. After. Just like your brother, always so sorry it ever happened. And he's just so upset that he did that and he didn't mean to, so you hold him, and tell him it's alright, that you understand. And you still have blood in your mouth, it tastes like copper.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, I just... I couldn't think..." He mumbled, over and over, until Salem shushed him.

"It's okay." He breathed. "Just. Give me a second." Roland nodded tightly, and Salem dry-heaved spit onto the ground.

After a few minutes, Roland stood, helping Salem to his feet. He smiled weakly. "I'll try to slow down sometimes." Salem said.

"I'm sorry." Roland mumbled again, picking up his goblet from the counter, the outside of the cup sticky from the wine he'd spilled earlier. In the new light, the cup seemed like the stupidest, dumbest thing he'd ever seen. Shame burned at his chest, at his face, in his gut. "Never again, I didn't mean to."

That's what Gaspar said too.

"Of course." Salem smiled, wincing slightly. "A mistake. I love you too."