Of Kings and Pawns

Chapter 8 - The Bells of the Alps

The snow-capped peaks of the Alps rose majestically around Lord Qarl Bern’s fortress, their white tips gleaming in the midday sun. Although his lands were technically part of the lowlands, he commanded the highest ground in the realm. The Alpine mountains, with their towering cliffs and icy winds, were a natural fortress, and Bern’s people had thrived for centuries in their shadow.

Lord Qarl sat in the Great Hall of his keep, its stone walls covered with tapestries depicting battles long past. He lounged lazily on his high-backed chair, a goblet of mulled wine in his hand, as his court jester pranced and twirled before him. The jester, a wiry man of nomadic descent whom Qarl had purchased during one of his journeys through the lands of Eroman, was dressed in patchwork silks. His face was painted with bright colors, though his eyes, always shifting and sharp, held an intelligence far beyond the simple fool’s role he played.

“Tell me another riddle, fool,” Qarl commanded, a trace of amusement in his otherwise bored tone. He swirled his drink, eyes barely paying attention as the jester danced around the firepit.

The jester grinned and began to speak, his voice melodic, almost songlike. "A bear slumbers in snow, fierce and bold. The eagle soars high, sharp talons in hold. The snow begins to melt, rivers run wild, and the fire that burns, blue and beguiled."

Qarl’s eyebrow arched at the mention of blue fire, though he dismissed it at first. The fool often spoke in riddles, many of which made little sense. But something about this one nagged at him, as though a deeper meaning lay buried beneath the nonsense.

Before he could ask for another, a knock echoed through the hall. His spy master entered, bowing low before approaching Lord Qarl’s chair. “My lord, I bring news from the lowlands.”

Qarl sighed and waved his hand for the spy to continue, already sensing that it would be the same old story of squabbles and skirmishes. “Speak, then.”

The spy master cleared his throat, his face grave. “Otto Eigermann has returned, my lord. House Rus is stirring... aggression in the north. Then there are rumors that the Grand Council will convene soon to decide who will rule the central kingdoms. The lowland lords are preparing for war.”

Qarl’s lips twisted into a frown. He leaned back in his chair, letting the words sink in. “Another war over titles and crowns,” he muttered under his breath, his tone dismissive. “The lowlanders always seem to find something to fight over. This will be no different than the last, I expect.”

The spy master hesitated before speaking again. “It is said that Rus’ mobilization is more aggressive than usual. They seek to extend their reach south, into the heart of the central kingdoms.”

Qarl’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And Eigermann? What does he seek?”

“Otto Eigermann has declared his claim to the throne of the central kingdoms. He rallies support, and it is said that House Maygard and House Garivaldo and others stand with him.”

The mention of Eigermann, Rus, and the council drew a deep sigh from Lord Qarl. He had no love for the endless games of power played by the lowland lords. The Berns had kept their distance from the politics of the south, finding safety and prosperity in the mountains, above the noise and chaos of the world below. But even so, something in the air felt different this time. The jester's riddle echoed in his mind, and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he felt a sudden unease.

As if on cue, the jester, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, began repeating his earlier riddle in a low, almost haunting tone: “The bear slumbers in snow, the eagle soars high... but the fire that burns, blue and beguiled, turns rivers wild.”

Qarl’s fingers tightened around the arm of his chair, and his eyes flicked to the jester, who grinned slyly as if he knew more than he let on. The riddle danced through Qarl's thoughts, and he felt the pieces fall into place—bears and eagles, the melting snow, and the blue fire. He sat up, his mind racing. The bear was House Rus, the eagle was Otto Eigermann’s banner, and the blue fire... he couldn't be certain, but the mention of it unnerved him. The world was shifting, and this was no ordinary conflict of the lowlands. Something destructive was coming, something... magical.

“This isn’t just another petty war, is it?” Qarl mused aloud, his voice now more alert. “This war will be larger than the last. Something is stirring.”

The spy master nodded, but remained silent, watching his lord closely.

Qarl stood abruptly, setting his goblet aside. He walked to the halls leading to his war room where his seasoned general was resting. His fool followed, prancing at every step, repeating the riddles as if it was a chant.

“Prepare the men,” he commanded, rousing the sleeping general. “Full mobilization of the Alpine folk. Fortify the Bernwall. Deploy the Watchers of the Alps.” The Bernwall was an ancient range of castles and fortresses lining the edge of his territory, protecting it from any who dared to venture into the Alps. It had stood for centuries, a near-impenetrable defense, and Qarl would see to it that it was ready for what was to come. And the Watchers of the Alps, elite arbalesters formed by a martial order, rarely miss their target.

"With haste my lord," his general bowed his head, and rang the bells of war. As soon as the first tower of Bernwall hears it, they'd ring theirs and all would follow until the whole lands of House Bern sounds of nothing but bells. Beneath them, villages and castles started to prepare their defenses. Men, women, and even able bodied children would pick up arms. In less than an hour, House Bern fully mobilized its entire population.

“Begin building the scorpions,” Qarl added, his voice firm. “We’ll need more of them. And send word to the griffin riders... we’ll need them on the wing, watching for any movement across the borders. Send ravens to all houses guarding the paths to us, limit every flow in and out of Bern lands."

The court was silent now, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Qarl’s gaze turned westward, toward the lands of House Frank. The winds of war were blowing from that direction, and Qarl had no doubt that the Franks, desperate and opportunistic as always, would use his lands as a shortcut to the central kingdoms if given the chance.

He would not allow it.

“Position the bulk of our forces west, near the Frank borders,” Qarl ordered. “If they come, we’ll be ready.”

The jester hummed quietly to himself, his voice low and rhythmic. “The snow melts, my lord... the fire burns... but who will claim the sky? Oh eagles! Eagles, ever bright! And eyes of brown and purple! Brings fire of blue!”

Qarl turned his sharp gaze toward the fool, now certain that the man was more than what he appeared. But there was no time to question it now. His people would be prepared, and if the war came to the Alps, they would not be caught off guard.

“Let the lowlanders squabble,” Qarl muttered as he strode toward the window, his eyes scanning the distant peaks. “But if they think they can use my lands as a path to power, they are sorely mistaken.”

The Alps had long been a place of refuge, a place of strength. And now, with the winds of war blowing across the realm, Qarl Bern would make sure that those who sought to tread upon his mountain home would find nothing but steel and stone in their path.