"Zizkarin, do you have any idea why the Imperials would so definitively send men to assassinate me?"
The Prince Regent sat upon the throne, one hand resting against his chin. Sir Harketh remained ever vigilant, standing guard at his side. The chamber was otherwise empty; only Vaenir, Harketh and Zizkarin were present.
"Only Myriam would truly know," Zizkarin replied. "However, Your Royal Highness has been strengthening the kingdom and restoring its former glory. The population appears content—enthusiastic, even. Imperials would hate to see Valkraun rise."
"They are quite bold," Vaenir said. "Valkraun will never lose another war. Do you know why I reverted most of my father's policies, save for the increased levies?"
"I see," Zizkarin said slowly. "You foresaw this outcome."
"Quite right. Economy aside, our kingdom prides itself on its warriors and its armour. The Imperials covet our iron mines. Ironhold lies closer than I'd like to—unfortunately."
"Then we must prepare a defence," Zizkarin said. "Should we send the retinue to Ironhold?"
"We will wait for Knight-Commander Eryn's return," Vaenir replied. "Once he does, all Royal Guards will be present and focused."
"Fully armoured, highly skilled knights would greatly aid the war effort," Zizkarin agreed. "I personally witnessed King Maershal's six guards crush a city of peasant rebels numbering in the thousands. The Empire lacks comparable metallurgical technology. The Royal Guard would overwhelm them with ease."
"Indeed," Vaenir said. "However, that alone will not suffice. We would still be outnumbered ten to one, so—"
"Apologies, my prince, for the interruption," Zizkarin said, raising a hand. "I have been experimenting with new methods of warfare. Peasant wagons."
"Peasant wagons?" Vaenir echoed.
Zizkarin produced a rolled schematic and unfurled it before them.
"Grant every household in the kingdom funds to modify their wagons according to these designs. They will serve both peacetime and wartime purposes. Allow me to explain."
"I am listening," Vaenir said.
"Wagons are mobile," Zizkarin began, "and with reinforced designs—pavises and shovels affixed to their sides—they may serve as both transport and fortification. In effect, a moving fortress. Battlements and firing slits would allow soldiers to discharge bows, crossbows and handgonnes while remaining protected."
He tapped the drawing.
"The pavises may be detached to seal gaps between wagons and the shovels used to dig trenches once several wagons are linked together—forming a temporary fortress, or even a makeshift castle."
"By Myriam," Vaenir murmured. "That is genius."
A smug expression crossed Zizkarin's face—an odd sight upon a man of his age and reputation.
"And the threat of enemy mages?" Vaenir asked.
"Each wagon line should consist of infantry, men-at-arms and at least one mage mainly focused on defense," Zizkarin replied. "Knights remain mounted, operating independently—flanking and ambushing while the enemy's attention is fixed upon the wagons."
"This is the future of warfare, but we aren't accounting for sieges."
"Contrary. We will starve the enemy. Should we go to war with the empire, we will seize every farm, every market in imperial territory. Then, we will surround the walls with our wagons and cut off any aid."
"That is not enough." Vaenir said, expression darkened.
"Your Royal Highness?"
"Take their supplies and burn the villages. Those imperials wouldn't resettle on torched areas. Scorch the earth. Should we capture cities, burn those too. We won't be fighting a war of conquest but a war of survival. Once the imperials surrender, we will retreat back to Valkraun."
"Duly noted."
"If I may intrude, it is about time Your Royal Highness found a wife to forge an alliance," Sir Harketh spoke.
"That is true," Zizkarin replied. "I hear the Elven Theocracy's Crown Princess is finally seeking marriage to strengthen their lands against Imperial threats."
Maidservant Alexandra interrupted as she entered the throne room, carrying three goblets upon a tray. "Your drinks, my lords."
"Many thanks, Alexy," Vaenir said as he took his goblet and kissed her on the cheek. "You may leave us now. We have important matters to discuss."
"Yes, my prince." She blushed slightly, bowed and left the room.
"Now then," Vaenir said, "where were we?"
"The subject of a potential future wife," Zizkarin said awkwardly.
"Ah, yes. That. Who is she?"
"Crown Princess Vivian Raelys. She is said to be the fourth child of the First Elven High King. Two of her siblings have already passed and the last is expected to die of old age within two years. Princess Vivian herself is said to be as old as Valkraun."
"Ah. Seniority succession. Wonderful. That aside, you want me to marry an old lady?"
"Surely you jest," Zizkarin retorted.
"I am fully aware that Elven women with royal blood are beautiful even in old age," Vaenir replied dryly. "I was merely fucking with you, old friend."
"Right," Zizkarin said. "Well, her remaining lifespan is expected to be roughly equivalent to that of a human's, hence her intention to marry now."
"Very well." Vaenir turned to Sir Harketh. "Send a falcon to Ventren with additional orders: Sir Eryn is to negotiate on my behalf for Princess Vivian's hand in marriage. I will draft the official letter shortly—"
"May I remind you my prince," Harketh interrupted calmly, "that both of those guards we had just sent are nearly illiterate?"
"Well," Vaenir said, waving a hand dismissively, "they should be able to recognise basic characters soon enough. Attach large capital letters spelling E–R–Y–N and let the Commander handle it himself, since he is already there. We only need Sir Ventren and Sir Gwendolyn to deliver it."