The Siege Begins: Klaus von Botmer
Klaus von Boatmer. The Boatmer Viscount. His real name wasn't Klaus. Klaus was the name of the family from the Republic that his parents had fled to during the revolution. It had been that way ever since his parents bought up the fallen collateral branch of the Goetes to survive. The bad blood with the Goetes was all but predestined.
Of course, even Klaus himself hadn't imagined that grudge would drag on so stubbornly, for so long, right up to his advanced age.
It had taken ages to build a merchant company, amass wealth, catch the eye of the parliamentary faction and the Second Prince, and sway the Goetes' collateral branches and vassals. Now, he was undeniably the most powerful figure in the North. In this northern duchy—excluding the Second Prince, the North's de facto ruler—no one surpassed Klaus in financial or military might. Everyone, from the Goethe Count to the Oton Marquis, submitted to him or tacitly aligned with him.
The Oton Marquis was a merchant-natured noble, always weighing the royalists against the parliamentarians. He could be swayed anytime if it benefited him. By contrast, the Goethe Count was like a rock. An inanimate object devoid of emotion or wavering.
Up to this war, Klaus had cast countless baits at the Count. Not a single nibble. Thinking back, it was laughable. Why bother baiting a rock? If the Count had bitten even once—if he'd shown the slightest interest—the battlefield for civil war wouldn't have been the North. There'd have been no need.
"There really was no need," said the silver-gray-haired old man, his locks falling over his forehead.
"You won't believe it, Count, but I rather liked you. I'm just a mortal who can't wield magic or aura, but I'm exceptional at reading human desires. That's why I know. The human heart is like dry grass in a field, swaying weakly in the wind. But not you. You were just a rock."
"......"
The Goethe Count merely stared at Klaus von Boatmer with impassive eyes.
"This wine made from berries. Remember it? When I offered to arrange a meeting with the Second Prince, you sent me a bottle and asked me to deliver it. The displeasure from that hasn't faded easily, but damn, it tasted good. That's why I always reach for it at important gatherings. Of course, the stuff brewed directly at Goethe Manor doesn't hit the markets, so I've had to settle for Bernsi's version."
"What good is rehashing the past?"
"It's because this really is the end. When this war concludes, one of us will be trapped in an inescapable pit. And it'll probably be you, Count."
"No house endures forever. They merely become history."
"Truly, you haven't changed a bit."
The Boatmer Viscount shook his head with a strange expression, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. The Count's demeanor remained utterly unshaken. The stench wafting from his body, the beast blood soaking his clothes, the scratches all over him, the fur coat little better than rags—none of it mattered. The scenery here, with five thousand troops encamped; the expensive leathers, intricately crafted magitech and weapons, the black-armored knights lined up in a razor-thin atmosphere of tension—none of it fazed him.
The Goethe Count was a rock. Rocks feel no fear, nor do they flee. They simply exist where they belong.
That very attitude made the Viscount's attempts at showmanship feel pathetic by comparison.
"If I'd been a 5th Class mage like you, Count, I wouldn't have lived like this."
"If you have nothing more to say, I'll be going. As you see, I've scraped the bottom of an empty barrel to prepare for this war."
"You still haven't heard any news of the First Prince's mobilization."
As the Count rose, the Viscount cut to the chase.
"What does that have to do with you, Viscount?"
"The First Prince will march whether you ask for aid or not. It's only a matter of time. He's a coward. If this drags into civil war and imperial meddling, it could revive elective monarchy over hereditary rule. At that point, even the Goetes—nominally upholding the electors—would hold a crucial vote."
"What are you getting at?"
"I'm telling you to beg the First Prince for help, Count. At least then, you might lose Winterband but save your life."
The Viscount stared piercingly at the Count. He'd dropped the honorifics. He'd never truly respected the Count, even when using them.
"I understand your upright character, defying death out of fear for civil war and imperial interference. But this war is inevitable. Even if you perish here, the First Prince will make your sons Goetes and turn them into his limbs. Your stubbornness will only lead your innocent soldiers and subjects at Winterband to ruin."
"......"
"Shouldn't you survive to protect your people? No matter the pretext we raise, it's all falsehood. You and I are mere flints to spark a massive blaze. We'll be discarded once used. I want you to live, Count. In this kingdom full of dry husks and field grass, rocks as weighty as you are rare."
"I'll be going."
The Count stood and exited the command tent.
"I'll give you a day."
The Viscount called after the Count's back. The Count turned to look. Ten aura users guarded the royal tent. The Viscount seated at its center looked every bit the king. The Count regarded him with indifferent eyes.
"One thing. You're mistaken about something, Viscount."
"Hm?"
"I'm not fighting to embrace death. I'm fighting to win."
"......Send a messenger to the First Prince by tonight. We'll begin the assault tomorrow morning."
The Count walked slowly across the Boatmer camp.
"Father, can't we just kill him?"
One of the ten knights spoke up. It was the red-haired knight, Everbin.
"Hold off. The Count's integrity is a stumbling block to our plans, but it's also what makes them possible."
A 5th Class mage. The Viscount had witnessed that destructive power just once. Once was enough. It explained why the royals had restrained the Goetes for nearly a century, invoking history itself.
The kingdom had only three 5th Class mages. Clavius, the wise king's advisor and mentor. Kroitz, master of the Blue Tower. And the Goethe Count.
Clavius and Kroitz agreed: class ranks were artificial constructs by magic scholars. Distinctions held up to a point via circles, but from 5th Class onward, the system lost meaning. Even among 5th Class mages, levels varied wildly. It was the path of those knocking on superhuman doors.
Those who walked it saw what others couldn't, heard what others missed. Thus, they knew the vast gaps between them.
The Goethe Count teetered on the edge of 5th Class's pinnacle. Unlike Clavius or Kroitz, who barely entered it in old age, the Count had reached it in his early thirties. Now in his mid-thirties, who on the continent could match him? That was Clavius and Kroitz's assessment.
Every mage had their quirks; the Count's was an obsessive guardianship of convictions and principles. How fortunate for the kingdom—a fact the capital's fools would never grasp.
The old mages said the same thing, rote as ever: "Better if he dies here. I'd be grateful."
The Boatmer Viscount stepped out of the command tent and watched the Goethe Count's receding figure. Passing Ripe Baron startled at the sight and collapsed in shock. The Count didn't spare a glance at the traitorous vassal, continuing his slow stride.
The Goethe Count would cling to his principles even as death loomed. Perhaps that stubbornness was the mental anchor letting him retain reason at 5th Class.
That's why the Viscount couldn't use petty tricks on him. He had to choke the life out slowly, without violating the Count's code of honor, for the Count to accept death.
"A pity."
Klaus von Boatmer smacked his lips. He had to shatter what he wanted. To gain greater things, he'd always weighed options on the scale and discarded without hesitation what had to go. But this time, regret would linger.
"Father, the trebuchets are assembled."
His eldest son reported.
"Is that so."
The Viscount replied indifferently, not even glancing at his son.
"And Binvelt."
"Hm?"
The Viscount's eyes shifted.
"They're mobilizing."
"Mobilizing? Baron Binvelt?"
"Yes. Gathering mercenaries and heading this way."
"How many?"
"Combined with Buechner's remnants and the mercenaries, about four hundred. Shall I go deal with them?"
"Hm."
The Viscount gazed at the civilian homes five hundred paces from Winterband. Beyond them loomed the walls. The inner walls were shorter than the outer northern ones but thick. He knew they'd mixed dimegtrium into the mortar for siege defense. Not easy to crumble with magic alone.
"No thrushes? Then we'll eat robins."
"Pardon?"
"Take five hundred. Go with Hausen Baron's and Mark Baron's forces. That'll put your numbers over a thousand."
"Isn't that overkill?"
"Take three knights, including Everbin."
"We're already overwhelming them in numbers."
"Our troops are fatigued from marching. And Binvelt has Kyle. Ordinary soldiers will just get massacred against him."
"......Understood."
"Don't disappoint me this time, Karl."
"Yes."
His eldest son, Karl, bowed his head.
"Ah, and one more thing. Bring Baron Binvelt back alive."
The Viscount added as if it had just occurred to him.
Baron Binvelt. Isaac von Vinfelt Goethe was a worm worth the effort to kill carefully. Or, conversely, worth keeping alive.
Dawn broke.
The Count sent no messenger beyond the walls. The southern civilian homes at Winterband were eerily silent, devoid of life. The residents had evacuated inside long ago.
Sentries atop the walls watched the Boatmer encampment.
"Raise it higher! Higher! We need it inside the keep!"
The trebuchet foreman bellowed. The counterweight slowly rose.
"Payload loaded."
Three massive wooden-and-iron structures stood on the plain.
"Fire."
The Viscount nodded.
"Fire!"
The engineer severed the launch rope with an axe. The three siege weights plummeted in sequence. The earth shook with a boom as leather sacks bulging with nets arced through the air toward the walls. They sailed over into the inner keep. Soon, white smoke like winter fog billowed atop the walls. Screams echoed from beyond.