Warsinger by James Baldwin (most inspirational books TXT) 📗

“Baron Kapolks, you are out of line. Lord Bolza is dead. He fell in the Battle for Myszno.” Istvan stood at ease, his handsome face drawn into sharp, unreadable lines. “And this ‘foreign wretch’ is Voivode Dragozin Hector, Primor of Racsa and Prince of Karhad, appointed by his Majesty- “

“His Majesty?! What does that ragged old Raven bastard know of our troubles here!?” Baron Kapolks snarled back. “He’s thousands of miles away, eating his way through our harvest in his gods-damned castle-!”

Istvan bristled, laying a hand on the hilt of his saber. “Are you going to stand there and commit treason in the presence of his duly-appointed Count, you cur? Say that again. I dare you.”

The furious noise started back up again. The Baron snapped something and reached for his sword, but was caught by the people standing around him and shouted down.

I pressed my lips together, clamped down on my temper, then turned to Istvan. “None of these people can control themselves. Clear them out. All of them. I can't do anything to help until they get control of themselves.”

Istvan's pale green eyes darkened. He gave me a troubled look. “All of them?”

I rubbed my forehead, grimacing. The crown was an uncomfortable pressure against my temples. “Yes, all of them. Start tickets at the door or something. Every minute we’re stuck here is another minute Suri is possibly being hurt. I'm not in the mood to deal with this.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed stiffly from the neck, then swept off down the dais and made for the door at a brisk walk.

[You have lost Renown: -100 Myszno Defense Force (Current Renown: 2273)]

I swayed anxiously on my feet, at a loss for what to do. Part of me was bewildered that a game could put a player in this kind of position. Part of me was impressed that the game's A.I so accurately depicted the complete, animalistic stupidity of an angry mob.

“Are you okay?” Karalti's voice rang in my mind like a bell. “You feel awfully stressed.”

“I am the opposite of okay right now,” I replied. “Whoever thought this would make for a fun game was sadist with a public humiliation fetish. Or a masochist. Maybe both. This is crazy.”

“It's not great out here, either. There's a huge crowd outside the gate and they keep waving torches and shouting rude things at me. They’re more afraid of me than I am of them, though.”

“Good. Make sure it stays that way. I don’t know if they have guillotines in Vlachia, and I don’t want to find out.”

Istvan's departure was only noticed by a few people. A slight young girl in piecemeal armor that was too large for her tracked him as he left. The girl shot me a piercing, fearful look, and pushed up against the wall of crossed spears blocking access to the dais. “Your Grace! Please, listen to us! I am the last of my House! I beg your audience!”

A normal man probably couldn’t have heard her over the noise. I drew a deep breath, clapped my hands on my thighs and strode to the line of guards. “Guys, let her up to talk. Just her.”

I might have been hemorrhaging Renown with the Defense Force, but the guards didn't question the order. One of them moved his spear aside just enough to let the girl worm through. Three older, concerned men tried to stop her, but she pushed past them and waved them back. I offered her a hand up the steps as she tottered, trying to stop from tripping over her own spurs. Seeing her step up caused howls of protest from the back of the room. I ignored them, and focused on the one sane person in the room.

“Alright,” I said, plopping back into the chair. “You’re up. Tell me who you are and what's going on.”

The girl had a pretty, coltish look about her, with big brown eyes and a long, wheat-blond plait of hair filthy with mud. She’d dressed in what had to be thirty-odd pounds of lacquer and metal, all of it mis-matched and poorly fitted to her small, frail frame. Even so, she sketched a practiced curtsey. “Your Grace, I-I am Kitti Gorazde Hussar. I’m, umm, the daughter of Baron Gor Hussar, Lord of Bas County. I-I attended my debutante ball at this castle two years ago, when I turned twelve, but I don’t have any way to prove my parentage…”

“It’s okay, I believe you.” The girl looked like she was struggling not to cry as I leaned forward, trying to tune out the background noise – internal and external – and listen. “What do you need?”

“My entire House was killed when the Demon invaded.” Kitti drew herself up tall, struggling to appear more lady-like. “Papa, my brothers, my uncles, the Castellan, everyone. They overran us after sacking V-Vyeshniki and turning all the dead people into zombies. Papa gathered his banners and rode out to confront the Demon. When they rode back to Solonovka, they were flying victory colors. Papa was in the lead, and when the knights poured over the hill and we all cheered. The city gates were thrown open, but they… they were all dead. They rode in and fell on everyone like wolves, killing and killing. Then came worse things. Specters and skeletons and…”

She trailed off, pressing the heel of her palm against her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “If it’s any consolation, we kicked a whole lot of undead ass on the Prezyemi Line.”

“It is.” Kitti sniffed and swallowed, looking at the ceiling. “My father’s remaining Blood Brothers, the ones who were to watch my mother and I, they swore themselves to me and brought me here. I am the last of my line. We stayed in a fortress and hid while the war moved north. Then we tried to go back to Bas, but one of Father’s old knights has claimed the manor and the county.”

“Give me a name.”

“His name is Zoltan. Zoltan Gallo. He was one of