Chapter 11: The First Defection - Part 1
POV: Corwyn Darke
The hunting lodge smelled of mold and forgotten things.
I arrived at midday on the third day of the deadline, Gareth and two guards hidden in the surrounding trees. The building itself was a single-story stone structure, roof half-collapsed, windows empty of glass. Perfect for a secret meeting—no one would think to look here.
Lord Harras Rykker arrived an hour later.
He was older than I'd expected—fifty, perhaps, with a gray-streaked beard and the weathered look of a man who'd spent his life managing inadequate resources. His guard captain rode beside him, a scarred veteran whose hand never left his sword.
[ LORD HARRAS RYKKER ]
[ LOYALTY TO DARKLYN: 23% ]
[ DESPERATION INDEX: 78% ]
[ RECOMMENDED APPROACH: ECONOMIC INCENTIVES ]
We dismounted simultaneously, meeting in the overgrown courtyard between our respective parties.
"Lord Corwyn." Rykker's voice was cautious but not hostile. "I confess I wasn't sure you'd actually come."
"I confess I wasn't sure you'd actually read my message." I offered my hand. He took it after a moment's hesitation—a good sign. "Shall we speak inside? The walls may be crumbling, but they're better than open air for private conversation."
The lodge's interior was marginally better than its exterior. I'd had Edric ride ahead to arrange torches and a small table with chairs. Two cups and a jug of ale completed the setup.
"You've prepared," Rykker observed.
"I respect your time, my lord. You took a risk meeting me. The least I can do is make it comfortable."
We sat. I poured ale for both of us, drinking first to show good faith. Rykker followed after watching me swallow.
"Your message mentioned better terms," he said finally. "I'm listening."
POV: Lord Harras Rykker
Rykker had expected many things from this meeting. A desperate young lord making wild promises. A naive fool overestimating his own position. Perhaps even a trap—though his scouts had confirmed Lord Corwyn came with minimal guard.
What he hadn't expected was competence.
Lord Corwyn spoke clearly and directly, without the flowery circumlocutions most nobles used to obscure their actual meaning. He laid out his proposal in simple terms: fifteen percent taxation instead of thirty-five. Mining employment for Rykker's peasants at fair wages. Trade access through Duskhollow's developing markets. Written contracts specifying all terms.
"Written contracts," Rykker repeated. "You'd put that in writing? Against yourself?"
"Against both of us. Protection works both ways." Lord Corwyn pulled a document from his belt pouch—a draft contract, already prepared. "Review it at your leisure. If the terms are acceptable, we formalize. If not, we part as we met—no harm done."
Rykker scanned the document. The language was clear, the terms exactly as described. No hidden clauses, no clever loopholes.
"Either he's honest or he's a better schemer than Darklyn."
"You know what you're asking me to risk." Rykker set down the contract, meeting Lord Corwyn's eyes. "If I declare for you and you lose, Darklyn will take everything. My lands. My family. My life."
"I know."
"So convince me. Why should I believe you can protect what you're asking me to surrender?"
Lord Corwyn was quiet for a moment. Then: "Have you heard about my agricultural programs? The mining operations?"
"Rumors. My men say your peasants are eating better than mine."
"Not rumors. Fact." Lord Corwyn leaned forward. "In four months, I've increased crop yields by thirty-five percent using techniques Darklyn would call 'peasant nonsense.' My mines produce five hundred pounds of quality iron monthly, with workers paid fair shares instead of conscripted labor. My population has grown from under two hundred to over two hundred fifty—people who chose to come, who chose to stay."
"Impressive numbers. But numbers don't stop armies."
"No. But prosperity does." Lord Corwyn's voice hardened. "Darklyn rules through fear and extraction. He takes everything, builds nothing, and wonders why his bannermen dream of escape. I rule through investment and partnership. My people have reason to fight because they have something to fight for."
The words struck something in Rykker's chest. Something that had been dormant for years under Darklyn's grinding taxation.
"You truly believe that?"
"I've staked my life on it."
POV: Corwyn Darke
The negotiation lasted three hours.
We covered taxation schedules, military obligations, inheritance rights, dispute resolution procedures. Rykker pushed hard on several points—he was no fool, and desperation hadn't blinded him to his own interests. I gave ground where I could, held firm where I had to.
[ NEGOTIATION PROGRESS: 73% ]
[ KEY POINTS AGREED: 8/11 ]
[ REMAINING OBSTACLES: MILITARY COMMITMENT, DARKLYN RESPONSE, TIMING ]
"There's one more thing," Rykker said as we neared the end. "If I declare for you—publicly, before Darklyn's deadline—it has to mean something. Not just a piece of paper."
"What did you have in mind?"
"I bring my soldiers. All fifty of them. They march to Duskhollow, they swear to your banner, they become part of your force." He met my eyes. "That's my test, Lord Corwyn. Accept my men into your command, integrate them fairly, treat them as you treat your own. Do that, and I'll believe everything else."
Fifty soldiers. More than triple my current military strength.
"Agreed." I extended my hand. "On one condition."
"Name it."
"Three days. I need you to verify my claims before you commit. Send your most trusted men to Duskhollow—let them see the farms, the mines, the people. If they report that I've been lying, you walk away with no obligation. But if they confirm what I've told you..."
"Then I kneel." Rykker's grip was firm. "Three days, Lord Corwyn. Pray your truth holds up to scrutiny."
POV: Ser Gareth Stone
They emerged from the lodge as the sun began to set. Gareth watched from his concealed position, reading body language for signs of trouble. He saw none—both lords moved with the careful satisfaction of men who'd reached acceptable terms.
Lord Corwyn mounted his horse, exchanged final words with Rykker, and rode toward the tree line where Gareth waited.
"Well?" Gareth asked once they were clear of observation.
"Three days. He's sending verification teams to confirm our progress." Cole's voice was tired but triumphant. "If they report honestly—which they will—we have our first bannerman."
"Fifty soldiers."
"And the political legitimacy that comes with a sworn vassal." Cole urged his horse faster. "Once Rykker declares, Darklyn's challenge becomes legally complicated. You can't demand trial by combat from a lord who commands bannermen—that requires Crown involvement."
Gareth processed this. "You're not trying to win a fight. You're trying to make the fight impossible."
"I'm trying to survive." Cole glanced back at the fading lodge. "Fighting two hundred soldiers with fifteen is suicide. But undermining Darklyn's coalition until he doesn't have two hundred? That's strategy."
"And if Rykker's verification finds something wrong? Something that makes him walk away?"
Cole's smile was grim. "Then we're back to farmers with pointed sticks. But I don't think that will happen."
They rode through the darkening forest, toward Duskhollow and the reckoning that waited there.
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