Chapter 90: Dietrich ‘the Glorious’ von Schwarnhelmensteinfeldran (Patreon)

Count Dietrich von Schwarnhelmensteinfeldran was a tall man with a hard jaw, a long nose, and deep-set brown eyes. His dark hair was neatly combed back, and he carried himself with stiff military posture at all times. He stood alert in the commander’s tent, awaiting the day of his doom. Already, the new commander, ‘Willem,’ was late.

Count Dietrich von Schwarnhelmensteinfeldran had been born to command in the second Grand Crusade. To stand atop the battlements, his crimson cloak flaring in the righteous gusts of war, raining death upon his enemies like a figure of justice. And now—demoted. Cast down. Word had come from the capital bringing news of the Second Grand Crusade he’d dreamed of. Not days later, they informed him he would be taking the role of vice-commander, serving in deference to Willem. He had nodded, of course, and smiled. But inside, Dietrich had forged and tempered a thousand steel vows of retribution.

Dietrich von Schwarnhelmensteinfeldran had never met or heard of Willem, but he knew everything he needed to. He was one of the pompous Six Drakes—a commoner Drake as well, judging by his plain and unadorned title of Willem which lacked a surname as glorious as Schwarnhelmensteinfeldran. Dietrich could picture him now.

Willem was the sort of man who tied his boots too neatly, a man whose hands were likely soft with a clerk’s life and whose ideas of warfare had been gleaned from poetry. He would be tall, awkward, with an open face and the vacant, desperate gaze of a man who thought leadership could be taught rather than seized by force of will. Dietrich did not need to meet such a man to despise him. His hatred was a form of divine instinct bestowed on the battlefield.

Willem would arrive soon to take command of the archers Dietrich had forged in the blood of millions. No doubt he would parade down the lines, offering words of ‘encouragement’ and ‘team spirit,’ as if archers were young children that could be inspired with empty vows. It was intolerable. Worse, it was dangerous. An army could survive many things—disease, famine, even bad ale—but not the incompetence of a smiling idiot.

Thus Dietrich prepared his quiet rebellion. He had, with casual comments and gentle suggestions, trained them to look for a particular signal—a nod, imperceptible to the untrained eye, that only he could give. When Willem cried ‘loose,’ a forest of motionless archers would answer with deafening silence. Only when Dietrich gave his secret sign would the arrows fly, and not a moment before. The campaign would not be lost, of course—Dietrich was a patriot. But Willem’s authority would be shredded so thoroughly that even the camp dogs would hesitate to obey him.

When the inevitable collapse came, and Willem stood befuddled and broken before the court, Dietrich would step forward with noble reluctance. He would wear the mask of duty and sorrow, graciously accepting command once again. None would speak of sabotage. None would dare. They would only whisper that Willem had not been ready, and thank the goddess that Dietrich von Schwarnhelmensteinfeldran, a true son of Ravenveld, had been there to pick up the pieces. They would name him Dietrich ‘the Glorious.’

The flap to the commander’s tent opened, and in walked Willem. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what Dietrich had been expecting. He was tall, yes, but had a swagger, presence, and a handsome face with noble features.

Willem strode up to Dietrich with a brisk nod, a bundle of papers tucked under one arm. "You must be Vice-Commander Derek von Swanfieldman.”

“I am Count Dietrich von Schwarnhelmensteinfeldran,” he corrected stiffly.

“Too long. I talked to your men a bit, earned a little rapport. They called you Swamphelm, so I think that’s what I’ll go with. Let’s discuss your duties.” Without waiting for a response, Willem began ticking points off on his fingers. "You'll oversee the training schedules, handle discipline, assign shifts, organize scouting parties, conduct field drills, maintain supply logs, direct positioning during engagements, and issue battlefield orders if contact is made.

Dietrich gaped. “Sir, that’s—”

“Almost everything?” Willem interrupted. “Just so. I’ll handle reports to headquarters, general morale, and broader strategic communication.” He handed Dietrich the bundle. "Here are the strategic overviews the king gave. If anything urgent comes up, let me know. Otherwise, you have full discretion. Wake me when we march, or if Sarah comes by. She’s the pretty woman with scary eyes—hard to miss."

Willem walked to the back of the tent, where he produced a strange looking pair of manacles. He put them on his wrist, and then laid down in the bed roll that had been provided. He retrieved a steel crossbow and placed it over his chest, and then seemed to try and sleep. Dietrich stood in place for a solid ten seconds before his wits returned to him.

***

Dietrich had been right in assuming that his replacement commander was useless, but he underestimated the fashion in which that uselessness manifested. They began marching not long after Willem arrived, using a massive underground tunnel that had been left behind by the espionage network of the Avarians.

All the while, Willem spent that time sleeping. He would often ride in the baggage trains, and the only times that he wasn’t sleeping was when that foul chimera Sarah visited. He didn’t know what unearthly rituals they were performing in his tent, but at all times they spoke, mocking laughter drifted out of their tent. Fortunately, the beast didn’t linger long.

There were no attacks—it was infuriating to see Willem be so lucky. Though it was somewhat cold hearted, he almost wished that enemies would attack. Instead, it was simply a grueling march making it through the sabotage the Avarians had left behind to slow their advance through the tunnel. It was too large and sturdy to collapse entirely, so the Avarians had focused their efforts on minor annoyances in their flight. Scouting effort showed that there was a fortification up ahead, but it was many days away.

The worst part of it was that Willem’s men didn’t seem to care in the slightest. Rather, he blended in with them effortlessly, occasionally showing up and chatting with them by their fires or breaking bread right alongside them. Dietrich assumed that he had a military background of some kind, and found it more fitting to consort with common soldiers than highborn nobles like himself.

But… it didn’t matter how well-liked Willem was. Charisma faded on the battlefield. That was the true test of a man’s mettle, and forged truer bonds than could be won with words spoken before them.

The scouting parties confirmed that a tremendous bulwark had been built in the midst of the tunnel. It seemed to have been built incredibly sturdily, and was packed to the brim with men and monsters of varieties most foul. Liches and worse commanded them—vampires, and other manner of dark beings. It seems to be the final hope of their enemy, the last bastion of resistance before reaching their heartland.

It would be less formidable than the many miles of fortifications built in the mountain passes, but considering the tight space and the walls encircling them, no less difficult to bypass. The archers would play a prominent role. Archers had always occupied a prominent role in sieges. They were tasked with suppressing the enemy while mages and aura users approached the walls to attempt to break them.

In simpler terms, it was where Dietrich could shine.

When Willem did as he usually did once battle began—namely, loaf around without contributing anything—the men would surely turn against him. Word would reach back to the king that he was utterly useless at his job, and he would be sent back to whatever hovel that he came from. The battlefield was no place for people that wish to coast by on their good looks. And thus, the legend of Dietrich ‘the Glorious’ would begin.

It was an inevitable outcome. Willem had probably only gotten the role because Sarah had insisted upon it. He was likely her plaything, her paramour—good only for his appearance. It explained why he brought a crossbow that had no loading mechanism. At least the man had the good sense to delegate command to Dietrich immediately, doing no harm to the cause. He was a manwhore with a man’s honor, at the very least.

Still, as the days passed on and on, rumors of this fortress kept reaching the camp, each grander than the last. It was said to be seven consecutive fifteen-feet thick walls, all lined up one after another. Each and every day, thousands of slaves worked to extend it, erecting more walls behind it. If they couldn’t break through fast enough, it would merely be an endless struggle of attrition, delaying their expedition and taxing their supply lines for years.

The burden was heavy. But Dietrich ‘the Glorious’ von Schwarnhelmensteinfeldran was prepared to meet it.

***

The day finally came when they came upon the grand fortification their scouts had been reporting on for so long. Dietrich had been coordinating with all of the other commanders to decide a course of attack, and had come to a robust conclusion. Everyone took note of the fact that Willem wasn’t present for these meetings, and already, murmurs of discontent were heard.

Morale was quite low, and it fell lower still when that abomination of a fortress began to reveal itself. In truth, the scouts had underexaggerated its formidability. It seemed like a sheer wall of stone, as if the mountain itself had fallen down to block their path. The only thing disproving that notion that it was more than a cave-in was the many mounds of monsters posted on its walls, their bestial eyes glinting in the darkness as they peered out at their army.

To Dietrich surprise, on the eve of the assault, Willem actually attended one of the meetings. Before anyone could even attempt to catch him up to speed on what was happening, he said something that defied comprehension.

“You want to break past the fortress, right?” He looked between them. “I’ll take care of it.”

The Grand Commander’s tent went entirely silent, all staring at him.

“Avaria has dozens of skilled mage slaves manning that wall,” Count Tielman said—Dietrich’s closest ally, and commander of the infantrymen. He was slated to lead the assault on the fortress. “I would die out there in seconds if I went alone. We have an assault team prepared.”

“I’ll join you. Just give me a spot at the front,” Willem said, pointing right at Tielman.

“It’s not your decision,” Tielman said angrily.

“I’ll allow it,” Princess Clara said. “Tielman, do as he says.”

Tielman clenched his jaw. “Yes, Your Highness.”

After that irregularity, the meeting preceded as expected—namely, with Willem slacking off in the corner. All prepared for the grand assault on the fortress the Avarians had constructed. If they could break past it and defeat the host of enemies that had been placed before them, they would likely make it to the Avarian heartlands.

***

“I understand that you might be annoyed that man has requested that you include him in your assault, but look on the bright side. Chances are, Willem will get injured, fall out, and be revoked of command,” Dietrich spoke to Tielman. “Regardless, my archers will ensure you’ll be—”

Tielman grabbed Dietrich’s neck. “You’re talking about my son,” he said, his voice guttural and enraged. He pushed him back. “Just do your job.”

Dietrich grasped his neck after, shocked. Thereafter, Tielman marched away. The preparations were quickly made, with the assault team readying for battle. Dietrich didn’t really have time to process what Tielman had even said before things were underway.

Then… Dietrich saw something strange. Willem walked out into range of the enemy archers and stood up on a high point, that steel crossbow of his held up. Golden aura began to swirl through the air, coalescing on that crossbow. Dietrich identified it at once—it was the same color as the Brugh family aura. Things clicked in Dietrich’s head.

Willem is Tielman’s son?

Dietrich had fought beside Tielman before. Back then, he hadn’t been the Shield of the North. He remembered Tielman as the Castlebreaker. He had seen him once at Harrowfort, where Tielman—without siege towers, rams, or ladders—simply walked to the curtain wall, raised a hammer high, and let his aura surge. When his hammer fell, the wall split like bark under an axe, the thundercrack echoing for miles while stones the size of wagons dropped like hail. His aura was simply that strong.

Moments later, Dietrich saw that feat once more.

One bolt fired, coursing through the air like a bolt of golden lightning tamed by a man. The impact was immediate: a deafening crack as a fault line spread like a spiderweb across the wall, then another, then another, each bolt slamming into stone until the entire bastion groaned and collapsed in on itself like a rotten tooth. The palisades shattered, the parapets buckled inward, and stone rained in heaps. Men and monster alike shouted in panic as their supposedly-formidable fortress crumbled beneath their feet.

To say the least… morale reversed rather sharply.

***

The shouts of exuberant bloodlust behind Willem were far louder than the cracking of stone and shouts of agony of those ahead. The power of the aura bow had been entirely beyond his expectations—it was like a portable cannon. Willem calmly pulled free the magazine from his crossbow and placed another in. He felt a presence at his side, and turned his head to see Sarah strut up to him. She had shed her mortal guise entirely, and now stood tall in her chimera form.

“You have some small knack for theatrics,” she said, then offered her hand. “Shall we?”

Willem took her hand wordlessly, and she helped him up to sit on her back. Her flesh shifted to accommodate him, which was less terrifying than it sounded.

“You owe me quite a bit for this diminishment of using me as a mount, like some baser creature,” Sarah said, turning her body to look at him. “I’m not a horse. How will you pay this favor back?”

“We can switch roles when we get back,” Willem said dryly.

Sarah scoffed. “How do you expect me to rid—” she trailed off, and her face turned to that of joyless anger before she turned her head to face the enemy. “How difficult do you think it would be to stage your death in this battlefield?”

“Let’s find out,” Willem said, hefting the crossbow.

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