CHAPTER 7:

DUCHESS MIRCALLA

1

Greylancer returned to Bistoria, the regional capital of his sector of the Frontier, three days later.

Five minutes after boarding a gyrocopter at the border checkpoint, Greylancer returned to his castle, where a shocking piece of news awaited.

Mayerling had wielded his evil claw and grievously injured Chancellor Cornelius inside the halls of the Privy Council Ministry.

“You have orders to report at once,” said the chief steward.

Though Old Cornelius did not perish, he was still being treated in the Nobles’ own hospital, where science and magic met.

“I expected nothing less,” Greylancer said with a smile.

This same smile floated to his lips once again, when Vice-Chancellor Pitaka issued Greylancer his orders:

“Lord Greylancer, I’ve been waiting for you. Mayerling has returned to his sector, following his attack on Chancellor Cornelius. He will likely hole up in his castle and engage our army there. The Privy Council has appointed you subcommander of the counterinsurgency forces.”

“Who is the commander?”

“Duchess Mircalla of the Southern Frontier sector.” A faint smile came over Greylancer’s lips, at which Vice-Chancellor Pitaka glared and quickly added, “Your army will assemble tomorrow. Best you go to the War Ministry to meet with Mircalla immediately. You two will have full operational control.”

“I must ask. What has become of the engagement against the OSB?”

“The Privy Council holds your command and victory on the moon base in high regard. Consider this appointment as subcommander as an expression of our appreciation. If you return having performed your duty, I have every expectation that more accolades will follow.”

“What of the OSB vanguard?” he pressed.

Whether Vice-Chancellor Pitaka recognized the force behind the question was not apparent in his expressionless face. “If you’ve returned to your sector, then you received the government decree. The plasma attack on suspected OSB enclaves was originally set for tomorrow. In light of the rebel insurgency, however, zero hour has been pushed to three days after Mayerling’s surrender.”

†

When Greylancer arrived at the counterinsurgency headquarters taking up a corner of the spacious War Ministry, the awestruck faces of the officers, and the beguiling smile of the duchess, greeted him.

“Lord Greylancer, it has been too long,” Mircalla said.

“Indeed.”

Mircalla’s smile turned affectionate, like that of a mother admonishing a mischievous urchin. He is as unsociable as he was a millennium ago, she thought. The faint scent of fragrance tickled the warrior’s nostrils.

“Given the sudden turn of events, we haven’t much time. What is the plan?”

The moonlight filtering in through the window illuminated the two overseers and officers. The walls were hewn stone, the room devoid of computers and machines.

Mircalla crooked a pale finger as if to beckon.

The space near the ceiling sparked to life, and an image of the moon suddenly appeared.

“The headquarters have already been fitted to your needs, I see.”

“Yes, excuse me.” Her finger, adorned with a diamond ring of a size that might be mistaken for the moon itself, danced in the air, and the moon image melted, giving way to a map of a vast land. “The Western Frontier sector, Lord Greylancer. ” Despite having been appointed commander, Mircalla maintained a tone of respect toward her subcommander. Greylancer’s glorious military service and skill as overseer demanded it, to say nothing of the reality that no one dared oppose him. “The key departments have already determined the composition of the troops. With this in mind, the strategy I have devised is the following.”

The map transformed into a three-dimensional graphic.

In the air were bombers, while on the ground were missile tanks, giant mechanized infantry, and a battalion of regular infantry.

Greylancer grabbed a bomber in his hand and took a good look. It was a saucer-shaped object about three centimeters in diameter. The actual aircraft measured fifty meters. “How many?” he asked.

“Fifty bombers.”

“Missile tanks?”

“Fifty. As well as a hundred giant infantry and a thousand regular infantry.”

“A tricky business—punishing a Noble.” Greylancer returned the aircraft and smiled bitterly. “If we fire an antiproton missile from the Capital, the entire Western Frontier sector will be destroyed. But it would not kill a single Noble.”

“Yes, wooden stakes, steel swords, sharp arrows are the only effective weapons in bringing us down in any age.”

“In order to destroy Mayerling, we must penetrate the castle walls and rely on the infantry’s swords and lances and bows. Mayerling will not sit back quietly. A frontal attack of the likes outlined on this map will spell heavy damage for our side.”

“The central government has already anticipated as much.”

“Are the giant mechanized and regular infantries comprised of androids?”

Mircalla shook her head slowly. The gold hair clip and diamond-studded crimson dress sparkled in the moonlight. “The giants are AI, and the regular infantry comprised of half-human soldiers.”

“Your proposed attack will cause untold fatalities.”

“Odd…” Mircalla touched a finger to her lips and smiled. Her fangs flashed beneath her lips; they were snaggleteeth unbecoming a duchess. She, too, fed upon human blood. “The Greylancer that I know would feel no compunction over sacrificing his subjects in order to carry out his purpose. He is a true Noble among Nobles.”

“To carry out a purpose,” he affirmed quietly. “But those sacrifices were ones of necessity. They died for a just cause. They have never been sent to their deaths for my self-interest, nor for senseless wars.”

“Such misguided—or shall I say, compassionate—thinking.” Mircalla dropped her head respectfully. “If you have objections to my proposed strategy, I would welcome hearing them.”

“No, I believe this is the best strategy.”

“I’m pleased to have your approval.”

“But this will be the outcome.” Greylancer moved toward Mayerling’s castle. The scale holograph of the battlefield stretched twenty meters long and ten meters wide. “I shall defend the castle.” With a grumble, he said, “Commence your attack.”

Mircalla answered with a nod.

†

“I don’t believe it,” said Mircalla, her voice filled with shock. “That my army would be so easily defeated as this.”

“Not defeated. Annihilated.” Greylancer cast a frigid look down at the dead troops and tanks lying in ruins on the holographic battlefield, then craned his neck to the right and left. His joints cracked. Flames and black smoke rose up in the air. They were holographic, of course, but they would burn you if you touched them. “This is the outcome I foresee based on the arsenal Mayerling has at his disposal. The strategy was mine, but I expect Mayerling to employ a similar one. But beware, Mircalla. He may have weapons of which we have no knowledge.”

“How could he procure such things?”

“Built clandestine factories and hired able technicians, perhaps. He may well have contrived the weapons himself. Your failure to consider this possibility, Mircalla, suggests you’ve become too accustomed to your own idleness.”

The bewitching beauty gnashed her teeth. Not out of self-reproach or regret. A look of hate had spread over her face, and she cast an upward glance at Greylancer. “If this is the best strategy, then what is next best?”

“I do not know,” grumbled Greylancer. “I leave now for my sister’s. You may call on me anytime.”

“With pleasure,” said Mircalla, bowing again.

Greylancer nodded and strode away.

When the sound of his footsteps faded, Duchess Mircalla dismissed the officers and gazed up at the moon in the window. “May you never learn, Lord Greylancer,” the supreme commander of the counterinsurgency force and overseer of the Southern Frontier sector intoned like a curse, “that our foe this time is not Mayerling alone. Dear friend Zeus—beloved Macula, pray that we will be able to achieve our purpose. Nay, we must seize victory with our own hands. And tear away their flesh and blood with these two hands.”

Her fists trembled with anger and hatred.

Shaahh! The duchess hissed, her right hand slashing down the front of her dress.

The fabric tore open and fell around her feet.

The moon gazed down at the woman’s naked body.

“Mayerling.”

Her right hand danced, its motion like an elegant dance.

A red line streaked from the left side of her neck and diagonally down her lustrous right breast, and quickly turned into a thick cascade of blood.

“Greylancer.”

Her left hand leapt.

A second blood streak ran down her other breast, forming a condemning cross.

“Watch me, dear Zeus. I shall send any enemy that stands in our way to their end. Like this!”

Whether driven to madness by the brilliant moon or having simply become too incensed, Mircalla smeared the dripping blood over her entire body.

Her breasts shook; her glistening stomach swayed.

The blood spread over her face.

And then, the duchess lifted a hand and suckled on her blood-stained finger.

In the dark where only the moonlight and the woman’s body glowed, the sound that would drive a Noble to rapture echoed across the stone room.

†

The coach, arranged for Greylancer by the central government, traveled thirty minutes west on the road and passed through the mansion gates of Greylancer’s childhood home.

Greylancer alighted from the coach in the courtyard, where the chief steward, house staff, and a young couple stood in a line before him.

Whereas the wife appeared to be in her early twenties, the husband was not much younger than Greylancer. However, he cut a diminutive figure that was a far cry from Greylancer’s stately mien.

This was Greylancer’s only family: younger sister Laria and her husband Count Brueghel. Though he himself was from a family of pedigree, having been stripped of his estate and rank from past failings, Brueghel now lived here, having essentially been taken in by the bride’s family.

“Seems you’re having a bit of a day.” Laria cast her stately brother a look filled with both sarcasm and unabated reverence.

After bowing and lightly kissing the palm of her outstretched hand, Greylancer muttered, “A day indeed,” and acknowledged his brother-in-law with a nod, failing, despite his best effort, to smile. He did not get along with Brueghel, who was an officer working in the Civil Administration Bureau.

Yet on this day, the oft-stolid Brueghel returned a cordial smile.

When Laria teased her husband later by asking “What got into you back there?” Brueghel replied, “It was your brother. He had an odd kindness in his eyes.”

The three went into the sitting room, where Brueghel said, “I beg your pardon, but I have some urgent business to attend to,” and excused himself.

“I’m sorry, Brother,” said Laria. “Something came up at work.”

“I thought civil servants were anything but busy.”

“He’s gone to give a poetry lecture to schoolkids,” Laria said with an air of indifference, expecting her brother to jeer.

Yet the answer she heard was Oh? Laria nearly threw her head back in amazement, detecting even a hint of respect in his voice. “That suits him. Brueghel must be very pleased.”

Greylancer was aware of Brueghel’s ambition to be a poet. She had expected her brother’s laughter to ring across the room. Yet his tone was nothing if not gentle. It was enough for Laria to suspect whether this man might not be an OSB impersonator.

2

“How is it working?” Laria filled Greylancer’s silver glass with the blood-wine brought to them by a steward, glancing expectedly for a favorable reply.

“It is a great help.” Greylancer raised his left hand and tilted the gold urn-shaped ring in her direction. There were three tiny holes on what appeared to be a lid. A good look revealed white plumes of smoke rising out of the ring. “Thanks to this time-deceiving incense you invented, I know now the reality of day.”

That Greylancer could scour the sector on his chariot to wipe out the OSB threat night and day was due to Laria’s invention. Anyone inhaling its scent experiences the illusion that night is day, and day is night. Thus when Greylancer walked in the light of day, his subjective experience was of being awake and active at night.

“The counterinsurgency force will be deployed to the Western Frontier sector tomorrow. Best you do not go out today.”

“Yes, I’ve heard what’s happened. But this is awfully sudden.”

“We are dealing with a ruler of his own sector. I fear we may even be too late, given our adversary. In many ways, Lord Vlijmen Mayerling is more formidable than any of the other overseers.”

“Even you, Brother?” Laria’s eyes opened wide.

“He has won the support of his people. Something none of the other three overseers have been able to accomplish, including myself.”

“But what of it?” Noble that she was, the significance of this fact escaped her. “The humans will not make a bit of difference in a battle between Nobles, regardless of their adoration of Mayerling. Isn’t that so?”

Greylancer fell silent for a moment, and then answered, “Indeed, you’re right.”

“You’re not acting like yourself,” Laria asked. “Is something the matter?”

“No—has there been any discord between Chancellor Cornelius and Mayerling in the past?”

“Of course,” she said with a nod. “The government probably only gave you a formal briefing…” The brows knitted on her feline face as she began to explain. “Mayerling attacked Chancellor Cornelius after the chancellor had laughed off his protest of the operation to wipe out the OSB infiltrators—or so it’s been reported. But if Mayerling were so quick-tempered to reach for his weapon, the Western Frontier would have perished long ago. No, dear Brother—there is a plan to remove the overseers from power in the Frontier, and Chancellor Cornelius is its architect.”

“That’s absurd. Our absolute managerial rights were awarded directly by the Sacred Ancestor himself. Not even the government dares tamper with those rights.”

“It has been six thousand one hundred years since the Sacred Ancestor disappeared from sight. His influence was bound to fade.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Not I, no.”

“The chancellor must be in league with someone more powerful than the Sacred Ancestor. Neither he nor this unknown faction would attempt to rise up in defiance otherwise.”

“That’s for certain,” she said with a grim smile.

“Any idea whom it might be?”

“I haven’t a clue.” Her smile vanished.

It was an ironclad rule of Noble society—no one dared face down Greylancer’s grave expression with anything but trepidation.

“No matter, all will be made plain in due time. Now then, I am in need of weapons.”

Her look darkening, Laria said, “Oh, yes…that’s right,” as if to remind herself. “Varossa has built many interesting…devices. You should try them out.”

“If they are Varossa’s, by all means. Can we go at once?”

“Of course.”

†

Several minutes later, Greylancer and Laria had made their way inside a marble dome towering over the courtyard.

A single moonbeam cascaded in like a waterfall from on high, a great distance away. There appeared to be a window somewhere.

Bathed in light, countless devices and vehicles of compelling shape and obscure function cast shadows dancing in the vast workspace below.

Elegantly designed stairs and slopes ran vertically and sideways with great mathematical accuracy, connecting various workspaces and gravity stabilizers suspended throughout the cavernous space.

“Varossa,” Laria called out. Before the echoes of the master weaponsmith’s name faded into silence, a figure wearing a turquoise cape and a ring-shaped antigrav belt around his waist swooped down from above.

“If it isn’t Lord Greylancer,” said the dour-faced man. Varossa was a few years younger than Greylancer, but older than Brueghel. But from his crest of silver hair alone, he might be mistaken for a man hundreds of years old. “Chatting with your long-neglected sister, were you? You are a warrior of the most regrettable kind. I dream of the days of our Sacred Ancestor, when a battle-weary warrior would have attended to repairing or exchanging their damaged shields, broken lances, and chipped swords before seeking rest or commiseration.”

Laria’s face turned pale, while a bitter smile came across Greylancer’s lips. “You’re exactly right, Varossa. But have you anything new to satisfy me?”

“Well, this is an odd question. If any of my creations have ever failed your standards, I shall cut off my head on this very spot. Of course, your eye for such things has always been a bit cloudy, unlike your father.” As he delivered his spittle-laden remark, Varossa’s eyes were fixed in a hard stare. Seeing the contented expression on Greylancer’s face, however, he came back into himself. “Forgive me, my lord. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a chariot.”

“As you wish. But first—” He pointed to the antigrav belts on hand.

Greylancer and Laria opened the rings and closed the belts around their waists. Then they needed only point the road reader toward their destination.

The three began to rise and soon hovered about a meter over the platform and, after flying on about two hundred meters, landed about five to six meters below.

They had descended to the Greylancer family’s weapons block. The entire arsenal had been designed and manufactured by Varossa himself.

Greylancer took in and marveled at the spectacle surrounding him.

Row upon row of chariots of every size; lances, long swords, and short swords hanging from racks; stockpiles of shields, cutting-edge power suits, and old-fashioned plate armor. This horrible scene stretched as far as the eye could see, past the horizon. This arsenal alone could arm a division of a thousand men for battle.

“You’ve added to your stock,” said Greylancer.

Varossa nodded quietly. “They’ve all been enhanced as well. Now, what manner of contraption are you in need of? If you can try to imagine it with that feeble head of yours.” The weaponsmith pressed an index finger to Greylancer’s temple.

Weapons and arms of every variety flashed across Greylancer’s vision. A data injection. Greylancer’s brain streamed the data for tens of thousands of items.

In a fraction of a second, an image of a particular chariot flashed to mind.

“Ah, yes, that’ll do.” With a nod of Varossa’s head, a thread of light fell from the ceiling.

Suddenly, a chariot materialized where the light landed on the floor.

The chariot was the same size and shape as the one Greylancer had lost in the moon battle.

“The force field is twice as powerful as the previous model’s. You should be able to penetrate any of the OSB’s defense fields and charge into enemy territory.”

“Should is unacceptable.”

“Then by all means, see for yourself.” Varossa gestured toward the chariot with an unshakeable smile.

“Very well.” Greylancer climbed onto Varossa’s beloved invention.

Stepping onto the platform, he felt the force field envelop the vehicle.

“See how you fare against the weakest foe.” Varossa tapped his thigh with his index finger.

Another thread of light dropped from the sky—

Which was no doubt connected to a multitude of God-given items.

An OSB ground vehicle the Nobles had begun calling a thunder tank materialized before Greylancer, several meters away.

The tank, easily three times larger than Greylancer’s chariot, hulked over the Noble, looking as if it might crush him at any moment.

Looking around the stockpile of weapons and machinery surrounding them, Varossa grunted, “Out of the way,” and putting a foot on one of the chariots nearby, pushed it sideways.

The chariot and the rest of the weapons and arms in view slid back till they vanished completely out of sight.

Inside the cavernous hall, only Laria, Varossa, the thunder tank, Greylancer, and the chariot remained. And murderous intent.

3

The massive stockpile cramming the floor had all been a 3D hologram.

Greylancer nodded at Varossa, unflinching.

“The thunder tank will act and react exactly as if the OSB were operating it. It will shoot to kill. If you lose, you will also perish, Lord Greylancer. Is that understood?”

“I expect nothing less.”

“Good.” No sooner had he said it than the OSB tank rumbled toward Greylancer.

The Noble felt the platform shake underfoot as the chariot hummed to life.

Just as the enormous tank rolled within a meter of Greylancer’s chariot, it crashed into the force field, flipping head over end in the air.

Landing on its side, the tank spun around in a circle like a helpless insect until it righted itself and retreated without a sound.

One silver ball, a second, and then a third shot out from the three barrels extending from the tank’s gun turret.

Greylancer swung the chariot right and evaded the first two shots, but the third hit the force field.

The silver projectile was an artillery shell measuring thirty centimeters.

The outer shell splintered away, while its contents grazed Greylancer’s head and disappeared behind him.

Within the shells were steel spikes about five centimeters thick.

“Now let’s double the force field.” Greylancer closed in on the tank, evading the incoming cannon fire.

The enemy circled right and fired more shells.

When one shell smashed through the floor near her feet, Laria let out a shriek.

Suddenly, Greylancer’s chariot took to the air and cut a diagonal path toward the tank. The Noble had switched to gravitational propulsion.

The OSB computer faltered for a split second. Unable to calculate an evasive maneuver, the computer rotated the tank’s turret and fired a random shot.

Though the shell hit the chariot head-on, both the casing and spikes were deflected from the armor.

Switching off the force-field generator, Greylancer whirled atop the enemy’s gun turret.

His right arm rose skyward.

The silver lance in his hand came down like a lightning bolt.

As soon as the blade slashed through the thunder from top to bottom, Greylancer jumped back onto his chariot.

A red streak tore across the contours of the tank, growing thicker and thicker until the armor ruptured and exploded. A massive fireball swallowed Greylancer and swept across the ground and sky.

The scene was strangely quiet.

Nearly ten seconds passed before the fire consumed the tank and went out.

Greylancer and the chariot appeared above the black ruins like a dream.

Laria ran to her brother. “Why must you be so reckless?”

“Well, is the chariot to your liking?” Varossa asked politely.

“It is a fine chariot.”

“Naturally,” said the weaponsmith, cocking his head with a self-satisfied smile.

“Why didn’t you equip every chariot with the superior force field to begin with?” Laria asked, an edge in her voice.

“There was no predicting what the enemy was capable of.”

“But we have engaged this type of OSB tank in battle more than once.”

An indescribable look of horror came over Varossa’s face. “Are you perhaps suggesting that I might be lying?”

“I’m sold,” said Greylancer, electing not to answer. “I shall ride this chariot tomorrow morning. See that you get it ready.” After handing down this order like only a Noble could, Greylancer switched on the antigrav belt and floated away, his sister following in his wake.

†

Watching Greylancer and Laria leave, Varossa grumbled quietly to himself at the door, “He distrusts even this weaponsmith, who has served House Greylancer for five thousand years. Such banality. A worthless master.” And then a broad smile came across Varossa’s face as he continued. “I would have expected nothing less from my master—Lord Greylancer. A mere grub of a son that you are compared to your father, you shall have my grudging support and these skills honed over five millennia. Long life and well-being, my lord.”

The next day, the counterinsurgency forces departed for the deadly battleground.

Since the troops couldn’t very well proceed down the road in a convoy, the army boarded a cargo vessel and within three hours arrived in the Western Frontier sector—Mayerling’s dominion.

In a siege such as this one, a gravitational barrier typically shielded the castle, Nobles’ residences, and the strategic headquarters. The initial attack necessarily involved attempting to destroy the barrier.

But Duchess Mircalla, the supreme commander of the counterinsurgency forces, could only blink in disbelief upon hearing the analysis reports from the aerial reconnaissance sensors.

“As unconventional as the Western Frontier overseer may be, it’s impossible that he is shielding his entire dominion with a gravitational barrier! It can’t be done without the Capital’s galactic energy changer.” This was Thorzak Yanzarlai, a duke of the Eastern Frontier sector.

“Then Mayerling must have procured a copy of the very same device,” said Mircalla, having already regained her composure. Glancing at Greylancer with her blue pools, she said, “You’re awfully calm. Why is that?”

“No reason. Only that I have always believed anything is possible—things that both the Nobility and humanity might struggle to fathom.”

“How very mindful of you.” Mircalla turned to the data projected in the air. “According to the data, the barrier’s strength is a hundred quadrillion joules—nearly enough power to keep the barrier up and running for eternity. We are nowhere unless we dispense with this barrier first.”

“So a full-force assault would require some time…then how about the age-old tactic of starving out the enemy?” remarked Lieutenant General Dreyse Ghishirshin of the Capital Defense Division, in jest. Though the strategist’s record against the OSB was unblemished, he had an unfortunate knack for souring the mood with his arrogance. When no one laughed, he winced.

Needless to say, human blood was the Nobility’s—vampires’—source of sustenance. This supply, collected both willingly and unwillingly from the local population, not only sated the Nobility’s appetites, but also filled frozen or otherwise dried and pressure-packed storage units scattered across the land.

A year’s worth of blood was typically kept on hand in any Noble castle.

In addition, Mayerling had perfected a cocktail of mineral-infused synthetic blood that tasted much like the real thing. He manufactured it in large quantities in a factory near the castle. A prolonged siege of a year or two years was exactly what Mayerling desired.

Of course, Lt. General Ghishirshin had quipped about starving the enemy, knowing so. Yet the members of the war council remained still as stone.

“Every castle floorplan includes secret evacuation tunnels, but the possibility of escape is rendered nil since the entire territory has been shielded by the barrier. No escape, no entry. It will be a long, drawn-out war.” Scanning the data, General Lei Huo Chao took a drag from his pipe. He was an elite strategist from the War Ministry. Given his background, perhaps he was well suited for a long-term conflict.

“That will not be the case.”

The generals, who’d resigned themselves to a protracted campaign, made no attempt to hide their anger or disbelief toward the voice of dissent. “Just what is it you mean, Lord Greylancer?”

“You possess some stratagem against Lord Mayerling?”

“What I possess is an understanding of Mayerling’s character.” Greylancer extended his left arm.

The image of a Noble appeared.

“Mayerling?” Despite recognizing it was nothing more than a hologram, the generals looked aghast, partially thanks to how lifelike the young Noble appeared, and partially due to the fear he inspired.

“Behold his face,” said Greylancer, jerking his chin at the handsome face. “His lineage, rank, and record are beyond question. You can recognize a warrior by his look alone. Do not be fooled by his handsomeness. His is a face to fear, Commander.”

“Agreed,” Mircalla answered flatly. “His fierce will for a fight, incisiveness, and ample confidence.” She addressed the hologram. “How did you come by these qualities, Mayerling? This is the face of the enemy that we must fight. No doubt, you will stand your ground to the very end. What clever gambit will you try?”

“His only option is to wait out the siege. We need only come up with an anti-barrier to neutralize his defenses. Far better than suffering casualties through needless skirmishes. Mayerling may have played right into our hand.” This was General Sade Jermyn, General Lei Huo Chao’s colleague and the number two man in the War Ministry. A standout in a ministry derided for their armchair strategists, he was recognized as one who piloted his own aircraft.

“Who do you think you’re dealing with?” Greylancer scoffed. To the battle-weary warrior, Jermyn was nothing more than an untested general, an impostor trying to pass as a hero. Despite the general’s sneer, Greylancer continued, “Look at his eyes. The jaw. This is the face of a man who will lead his men into enemy territory himself. Such a man will not be content to hole up in his castle and play a waiting game. Open your eyes. The moment we let down our guard, he will strike us with his army—a cunning attack that we cannot even imagine.”

“You’re an impudent one,” seethed Jermyn, baring his teeth. His fangs gleamed in the moonlight streaming into the war room. “You are speculating without substance. What knowledge have you about Mayerling? Grow up together, did you?”

“Today may well be our first encounter.”

“Do you mean to mock me, Greylancer?”

A murderous air that made the warriors want to turn away swept across the room. Jermyn shot to his feet.

“That’s enough, both of you!” The voice of the supreme commander immobilized Jermyn. “As long as I am commander, I will not have any infighting. If you desire bloodshed, let it be Mayerling’s.”

On the battlefield, a superior’s command was ironclad.

Jermyn sat down in indignation as Greylancer stifled a smile.

“The Privy Council’s orders are to end this conflict within five days. Time enough left to our own devices,” said Mircalla, smiling. Had she been entrusted as overseer on pedigree alone, the duchess would lack the wherewithal to manage the Frontier. “At any rate, let us put forth our best efforts. Lord Greylancer, can you verify your assessment?”

“No, it is solely my assessment of Mayerling. But make no mistake, anyone with a passing glance of Mayerling, even from a distance, would concur.”

“As much as I’d like to agree with you, that alone will not do. General Jermyn, I believe yours is the most sensible course of action. But we haven’t time for a drawn-out war. Have you a strategy to cross swords with Mayerling within five days?”

Jermyn distorted what was already reputed a menacing face and closed his eyes in deep contemplation. The battle-tested warrior and master strategist thrived in times like these. Smiling, he opened his eyes almost immediately and nodded, “Yes, I do.”