TSA: Chapter Thirty-Three: Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter Thirty-Three: Enemy of My Enemy

…The Algrian Mountain Hound is a medium-sized, strong, and agile hunting dog with a slightly elongated body and a sturdy, elegant build. Its head is well-proportioned, with a broad, slightly domed skull, a curved nosebridge, and strong jaws. The ears are high-set, medium in length, and rounded at the tips, hanging close to the head. Its neck is muscular with a slight dewlap, and its topline slopes gently upward toward the hindquarters. The tail is medium in length, set high, and carried level or downward.

Of the Coat

The pelt of this hound is short, dense, and lustrous, lying smooth against the body with a moderate harshness to the touch. It grows finer upon the head and ears, yet more coarse and elongated along the abdomen, limbs, and tail. The coat varies in hue, displaying shades of black-masked fawn, red, or brindle, and may on occasion bear a white marking upon the chest, though such is not invariably present

Of the Disposition

Algrian Mountain Hounds are calm, devoted to their families, and reserved with strangers. They are relentless and focused hunters, primarily employed as trackers rather than kept as pets. Their temperament and build make them ideal for their specialized role in hunting and tracking.

…

—Excerpt from Milburga Leah's Speculum universale - 'The Voltulian Philosophica', located on the coordinates 00.00.24.03.02; Udoris/Udoris/Zoology/Mammals/Domesticated.​

✥✥✥

Khule, 4th Moon, 16th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

The air in Lord Tristan’s chambers was thick with the stench of stale wine and bitter smoke. The shutters were drawn, shutting out the grey light of day, and the room was lit only by the flickering glow of a dying fire in the hearth. Books, maps, and letters lay strewn across the floor, mingling with shards of broken goblets and the remnants of yet another chair shattered in one of Tristan’s rages.

The lord of Khule sat hunched in his great chair, his massive frame nearly overwhelming the seat. A jug of wine rested on the table beside him, half-empty, while his goblet dangled from thick fingers, teetering on the edge of falling. His beard, once neatly trimmed, had grown wild, streaked with grey and flecked with the stains of drink.

Ser Aelric stood near the doorway, his posture stiff and his expression wary. Weeks of attempting to counsel his lord had worn his patience thin. Lady Mira’s quiet plea still echoed in his mind—that he talk sense into Tristan before what little remained of their house’s treasury was squandered on ruinous ambition.

“My lord,” Aelric urged, his tone steady but soft, “you cannot keep on this path. Another army, another war—it will destroy what’s left of these lands.”

Tristan snorted, a guttural sound that might have been laughter. He didn’t look up, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the dark red liquid swirling in his goblet.

“Destroy?” he rasped, his voice rough and slurred. “You think Khule isn’t already destroyed, Ser Aelric? Do you think those lords and petty men across the land haven’t already decided I’m finished? Broken? Beaten?”

“My lord,” Aelric pressed, stepping closer, “there is still strength in Khule, but not if we squander it. This course you’re set upon—raising another army, marching on Faywyn again—it is folly—”

“Folly?” Tristan’s voice boomed, cutting through Aelric’s words like a blade. He slammed the goblet onto the table so hard the wine sloshed over the rim. “You dare call me a fool in my own chambers?”

Aelric hesitated, his words carefully measured. “I dare speak the truth, my lord. We cannot afford another war. The treasury bleeds faster than your enemies ever will, and our people—”

“Damn the treasury,” Tristan growled, lurching to his feet. “And damn your caution. What people? The cowards? The lot of them! If they won’t fight for their lord, they’re no use to me.” He grabbed the wine jug and poured another measure, his hand unsteady. “No man calls me a coward. No man calls me defeated.”

“My lord,” Aelric ventured cautiously, “this will not end the way you hope. Even your lady wife fears what this course will cost.”

Tristan’s laugh was harsh and humourless. “Mira fears too much. She’d see me dead before her precious coffers ran dry. No, Aelric, the only thing that will end this disgrace is blood. And it will be Faywyn’s blood, not mine.”

He turned suddenly, his eyes wild. “And where is that snake, Sean? And his lapdog, Drake? Gone! Vanished! The pair of them slithered away after Faywyn. Left me to shoulder the shame alone. They swore Faywyn would fall like a rotten fruit. I ought to have their hides for this humiliation!”

With a bellow, Tristan swept his arm across the table, sending its contents crashing to the floor. He seized a nearby chair and hurled it into the hearth, where it splintered with a burst of sparks.

Aelric stepped back, his hand tightening on his sword hilt but making no move to draw. He had seen these fits before, knew better than to interrupt.

When the storm subsided, Tristan slumped back into his chair, his broad chest heaving. The rage that had gripped him ebbed, leaving behind a sullen, heavy quiet. Trembling, he reached for the jug again and poured another drink, though his hand barely steadied enough to lift it.

The door creaked open, and a servant girl slipped into the room, a broom in hand. She moved with practised ease, her expression blank, betraying no fear as she knelt to gather the shattered debris. Her steps were light, her movements efficient, as though she had done this countless times before.

Aelric watched her work, unease flickering across his face. He turned his gaze back to Tristan, who stared into the depths of his cup, the firelight playing across his haggard features.

A second knock broke the silence.

Another servant entered, a boy with flushed cheeks and darting eyes. He lingered in the doorway, clearly reluctant to step inside.

“My lord,” the boy stammered, his voice trembling, “a visitor has arrived. They… request an audience with you.”

Tristan didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire.

The boy hesitated, glancing at Aelric for reassurance, then pressed on. “They said… they wish to speak of shared grievances, my lord. A… common enemy.”

Tristan’s hand stilled then, his fingers curling into a fist. Slowly, he lifted his head, his bloodshot eyes narrowing.

“Send them in,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The boy nodded quickly and backed out of the room.

Aelric watched him go, his unease deepening. He turned his gaze back to Tristan, who had leaned back in his chair, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“More blood,” Tristan murmured, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire. “Perhaps the ancestors haven’t turned their backs on me after all.”

The servant girl continued sweeping, her movements steady and unbothered. Aelric, however, felt the weight of the moment settle like a stone in his chest. In his gut, he felt it—this visitor, whoever they were, would bring no good to Khule.

And yet, he said nothing. For what could be said to a man already drowning in his own ruin?

The fire crackled in the hearth as the sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond.

✥✥✥

Outhor moved through the dim corridors of Khule Keep with measured steps, his boots barely making a sound against the cold stone. The air smelled of damp and smoke, the weight of the keep pressing down on him like a physical thing. The walls whispered of decay, of a house rotting from within, and Outhor’s sharp eyes noted the cracks in the plaster, the fraying of banners once bold and proud. A house to match its lord, he thought grimly.

He was led into Lord Tristan’s chambers by a nervous servant boy, who glanced over his shoulder twice before retreating as quickly as he dared. The room reeked of stale wine and despair, and the sight before Outhor did little to dispel his apprehension.

Tristan sat in a great chair by the fire, his broad shoulders hunched forward, one massive hand gripping a goblet as if it were a weapon. His beard was unkempt, streaked with grey and wine stains, and his bloodshot eyes fixed on Outhor with a sharpness that belied the lethargy in his posture.

“So,” Tristan growled, his voice low and rough. “You’re the one I was told about. Speak your piece, messenger, or get out.”

Outhor inclined his head slightly, his demeanour calm and deliberate. “Lord Tristan. I am Outhor, an aide to Reamus of the Wood, who leads the Forest Wolves. I come at my master’s request to offer a proposal, one that may be of mutual benefit.”

Tristan snorted, setting the goblet down on the armrest of his chair. “The Forest Wolves? Never heard of you.”

“No, I don’t suppose you have, my lord,” Outhor said evenly, stepping further into the room. “We are not a force that courts attention. But our bite is sharp, and our claws leave scars. We are a band of fighters, forged in the forests of Algrim, bound by neither crown nor fealty to any lord. For years, we made our living far from the eyes of lords, but recent circumstances have pitted us against Faywyn and the von Grifenburgs. We have harried their trade, struck their villages, and bled their forces wherever we could. Yet the winds of fortune have turned against us. The boy lord of Faywyn has made it his mission to see us destroyed. He has called upon the Mountain Tribes, offering them coin to hunt us through the forests. They know the terrain better than we do, and we have been driven from our dens. Our numbers dwindle, our supplies run short, and our cause falters. Alone, we cannot hold.”

“And this is my problem because…?” Tristan asked, though there was a flicker of interest in his eyes.

“Because we share a common enemy,” Outhor said quickly, his voice steady. “You despise the von Grifenburgs. Your defeat at their hands has wounded more than just your pride—it has left your house vulnerable. You and my master may not share blood or status, but you share a grudge. And grudges, Lord Tristan, are powerful things.”

Tristan sat back, a faint scowl tugging at his lips. “Say what you came to say, bandit. What do you want from me?”

“We need a sanctuary,” Outhor said simply. “A place to regroup, resupply, and strike from. Your vassal’s lands border Faywyn, your woods are vast, and your holdfasts are strong. With your support, we can construct outposts deep in the forests, defensible positions from which we can resume our raids on Faywyn. In return, we offer you a weapon. The Forest Wolves will be your blade in the dark, your fangs in the shadows.”

Tristan’s scowl deepened, his thick fingers drumming against the armrest. “And what would I gain from this? A few dead merchants? Some burned wagons? I desire more than inflicting petty banditry against my nemesis.”

“Not banditry,” Outhor corrected. “War. A war of attrition, one that will weaken Faywyn before you ever have to lift a sword. We will bleed them dry. Their soldiers will be too busy fighting shadows in the woods to defend their walls, their coffers will empty as they try to rebuild what we destroy, and their people will lose faith in their lord’s ability to protect them. When the time comes for you to strike, Faywyn will be ripe for the taking.”

Tristan leaned forward, his massive hands resting on his knees. “You think you can do all that?”

Outhor nodded. “Even now, the von Grifenburgs spend coin and men to hunt us down. Imagine what we could do with your support. Supplies, manpower, the means to build fortifications. Help us, and Faywyn will crumble.”

For a long moment, Tristan said nothing, his gaze fixed on the fire. Then, slowly, he reached for the goblet, taking a long drink before setting it down again.

“And if you fail?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“Then you’ve lost nothing more than some coin and food,” Outhor replied smoothly. “And gained the satisfaction of knowing we fell fighting your enemy.”

Tristan’s lips twisted into a grim smile, his teeth bared like a beast catching the scent of prey. “You speak well, bandit. Too well. Words are cheap, and alliances even cheaper. But I’ll give you what you ask for. Supplies, men, and the woods you need to hide in. But hear this, and hear it well—if you fail me, if you squander what I give you, if you even think of turning on me…” His voice trailed off in a growl. 

Outhor inclined his head deeply, his expression unchanging. “Understood, my lord. You will not regret this.”

Tristan waved a hand, his mood shifting to something faintly lighter, though the shadows in his eyes had not faded. “Get out. Tell your master I expect results. Quickly.”

Outhor turned without a word, his steps measured as he left the room. As the heavy door closed behind him, he allowed himself a small breath.

Desperation makes for dangerous allies, he thought, slipping into the dim corridor beyond. But desperation is all we have left.