Chapter 351 Clavieras
Chapter 351
Clavieras
The Mountain City
Out of an abundance of caution bordering on paranoia, four of the Elders and a dozen of their most trusted clansmen slept in the Stone Citadel, guarding their hold over the Mountain City of Clavieras. While the city was not the oldest among the Five Peaks, over time, it had grown into the richest. More than ten thousand people lived under its reach, spread across the city itself and the smaller towns, villages, and hamlets clustered around it.
Generations ago, Clavieras had been little more than a cluster of rain-fed villages, surviving on thin fields and uncertain harvests. Its fortunes changed when the clans discovered a natural cavern that ran farther and farther west before eventually connecting to the Lowlandian plateau, ten days away from Three Hills, a major point of commerce.
Another passage toward Dawn had long been known, though it was little more than a narrow goat path winding along the dense forested slopes.
With profit to be made, the cavern route was expanded to make travel easier. Then, as if ordained by fate, the diggers struck copper and gold. That discovery marked Clavieras’ place as the most important city in the Five Peaks. Even after it was proven time and again that the gold vein was small and eventually exhausted, the city had already risen too high to be challenged.
As centuries passed, its importance grew further when the same cavern was widened into a grand underground passage. Many had called the project wasteful, but greed knew no bounds, and the clans had deep purse from smuggling on a vast scale.
The city’s defenses grew alongside its importance. For generations, many had grumbled over the cost, which kept its people heavily taxed. They argued that the city had no need for such walls, for it feared no assault. It was naturally protected, well hidden from every route except those held by the other cities of the Five Peaks. Still, the building of walls continued.
As the city grew, it naturally lost the ability to feed its own populace and came to depend on shipments of food from neighboring cities, so long as it had money to spare. But with hostilities against Dawn and the Black Lord, that money was dwindling faster and faster. Its future had become uncertain.
Yet the city’s importance did not diminish, for Clavieras alone had direct access to three provinces at once: Dawn, Lowlandia, and Nicopola.
Although the grand underground passage connecting Lowlandia and Nicopola had never fully opened, the city remained strategic.
Holding the city meant holding the Stone Citadel, the crowning jewel of its defenses. The castle, carved against the mountain face, was where true control rested. It kept officers and troops on duty, along with enough supplies to endure an attack.
Now, the four Elders sleeping there were roused from sleep in the cold dark, with hours still left before dawn.
“An attack? From where?” one demanded as they gathered beneath a chandelier of white light.
It was the question everyone had asked, but the guard on duty had little to offer. “We are still ascertaining—”
“Do not hide behind that word,” one of the Elders snapped, his silken sleeping robe gleaming under the light. “You don't have any idea?"
The broad-shouldered Elder, still imposing despite his age, said, “We should seal the doors.”
“That would cut us off from everything,” the third Elder, the only one cleanly shaved, objected.
“It must be Roderic and his ilk,” the fourth said, as if passing judgment.
The broad-shouldered Elder frowned. “Don’t badmouth the militia so readily.”
“Roderic is still in the dungeon,” the third Elder reminded his counterpart.
“We cannot dismiss the possibility of a coup,” the fourth insisted.
The first Elder, the one in the silken robe, snorted. “With you, everything is always a coup. It’s more likely a slave riot.”
The third Elder was a lot calmer. “We are guessing in the dark. I say we let the guards do their duty first, then make our decision. Haste is dangerous.” He turned to the guard leader on duty. “Keep gathering information and relay it here.”
“At once.” The guard leader and his assistant left the hall.
The fourth Elder turned to his own servants. “Wake the kitchen. We could use some hot soup.”
“Hungry so soon?” the first teased.
“If this is real trouble, we won’t have the leisure to eat breakfast.”
His words proved prophetic. Within hours, they learned of sporadic attacks across the city. Patrols were attacked. Buildings came under assault. Many believed it was truly a slave riot, for the earliest solid reports came from clans that ran slave houses. They claimed they were under attack.
Yet the guards hesitated.
Rumors in the streets spoke of a turf war between clans. It was not something the guards wanted to take part in, not unless their highest officer backed them. With more than forty clans in the city, even the smallest commanding more than twenty men and slaves. Furthermore, it was hard to separate rumor from truth.
Everyone seemed to be carrying a spear or sword, wearing ringmail or brigandine. Some were protecting their own streets. Others were chasing after other groups. Every witness told a different story.
Meanwhile, the guards on duty were few to begin with, and some had already been lost in the chaos.
Worse, a larger patrol of fifteen men sent to investigate failed to return. After that, they stopped sending patrols. Chaos spread even faster as fires broke out in several districts, marking the night as one of the most disastrous in Clavieras’ history.
The city gates were promptly sealed, but that only made things worse. Panicked people could no longer flee, and crowds began to choke the streets. Still, the guards and the Elders feared opening the gates. They suspected the riot might be a distraction, while an enemy force waited outside for the first chance to enter.
Chaos reached the Stone Citadel as well. As more Elders woke and hurried there, more opinions were thrown into the hall, until every decision froze beneath argument and suspicion.
Even when dawn broke, they still could not agree whether to call for the militia or rely on their guards alone. They feared the younger men in the militia might be waiting for this chance to raise arms against their rule. Worse, they still couldn't agree what they were facing: an attack, a coup, or a slave riot.
The only decision they managed to pass concerned Roderic. The disgraced commander was to be exiled.
The truth was, nobody truly believed he had any hand in the trouble. But it was simply too good a chance to waste. They had long wanted to get rid of Roderic but had feared angering the younger faction.
Now, with the city in turmoil, they believed they could act and lay the blame on the unrest.
Even in the face of chaos, the Elders cared more about furthering their own agenda than managing the crisis.
Still, the city had been built and designed well. Fire and chaos alone would not break it. And the three hundred guards were more than enough to handle even the most stubborn slave riot while still maintaining vigilance against an outside attacker.
As the Elders busied themselves with their own schemes, the guard leader at the gatehouse grew increasingly wary.
Amid the reports of missing patrols and scattered fighting, he asked his staff, “Have we had any news from the underground garrison?”
A part of their strength, more than sixty men, was stationed there. They were men who could be used to quickly restore order.
“We’re still waiting for a report. The men we sent to reach them likely got lost or fled from the riot,” his aide reported.
“That’s only natural. The entrance to the garrison is close to the market,” a senior guard remarked.
The guard leader exhaled heavily. He suspected there was more to it. Yet with chaos erupting across the city, he had too many things to suspect. He turned toward the window and saw parts of the city in flames.
The sun had slowly risen, but it brought no order, only more chaos.
***
Underground Dungeon
Roderic’s cell had no natural light. The only illumination came from the near-constant glow of a lantern outside, filtering through the small window set into his locked door. The lantern changed hands with each guard shift, and every guard had been specifically ordered not to speak with him.
The elders had feared him enough to keep him in such confinement. As a result, Roderic had fallen into an unnatural pattern of waking and sleeping. He slept for long stretches, waking only to keep his body from growing too sluggish, or to eat when a plate appeared by the door with a bucket of water.
Over time, he and the guards had come to a silent understanding. If he left the empty bucket near the door, they would refill it for him. That was all he needed.
He did not need conversation. He was perfectly content talking, or rather monologuing, to himself.
With a listener or without one, it made little difference.
Moreover, he could feel the guards showing him sympathy. The food was not bad, and no one had fouled it with spit or piss.
That thought made him even more confident. Change would come. Things always worked in his favor in the end.
The only thought that gnawed at the back of his mind was his Centurian wife. He had not yet made full use of her worth. He longed for her and often wondered who had dared take her from him, knowing he would return and make them answer for it.
So when the door opened while he lay half-asleep on his bed of moss, with his folded blanket beneath his head as a pillow, Roderic barely cared. He assumed it was only the usual routine.
Then he heard it. More footsteps than usual.
That made him crack an eye open. The door stood ajar, and beyond it he saw the glow of lights and the silhouettes of several men.
Instead of fear, he let out a snort. Without rising, he asked, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Get up, Roderic. We’ve come to send you into exile.”
The voice was familiar to him, yet the words were not what Roderic had expected to hear.
“Exile?” he blurted, unable to hide his surprise. Then he saw the man who had said it and froze. As he had suspected, the speaker was familiar. His own second-in-command. “You!”
“Yes, me,” the man replied flatly. “Now come. Keep what little dignity you have left.”
“You dare command me?” Roderic demanded, now upright and seething.
“The situation leaves me no choice.”
“Lies! What about the people’s will?” He paused, his eyes darting wildly. “Oh, I know what this is. You’re selling everyone to the Elders.”
The man snorted and turned briefly to the others with him before looking back at Roderic. “No. We sold you.”
Another man turned to the guards, instructing, “Take him away.”
Two guards stepped inside and seized Roderic, prompting him to shout, "You cannot cast me out from my rightful place among the Clans. I am a leader among you.”
His former second-in-command ignored the outburst. “Our ally, King Nico is dead. In the chaos, you will serve the Clan better by helping us grow our influence there.”
“So that is the excuse you and the Elders came up with?” Roderic barked as the two powerful guards dragged him away. “Throw me out without angering the people? Exile me to Nicopola and make me serve the Nicopolans? You traitor.”
His former friend snorted. “They are mostly Sarmatians. You may find them to your liking.”
“Sarmatians? They are nothing but rabid dogs.” Roderic struggled, but his body had grown too weak to do much.
One retorted, “All the more fitting for you.”
Hearing that, the small crowd of men, faces Roderic knew all too well, burst into laughter and jeers.
Roderic turned vicious. “You would be better off sending your wives and mothers—”
The air turned tense in an instant.
“Careful. Don’t force us to draw blades," an older face warned.
“Cowards,” Roderic spat. “One on one, now!”
The older man stepped forward, but Roderic’s former friend barred him with an arm, signaling for him to stand down. It was not worth it.
With nothing left to grasp, Roderic changed his approach. “Comrades, you cast me out on the very edge of our dream’s realization. How foolish and greedy can you be? You trample your own fate—”
“Roderic,” his former friend cut in, “you are not the only veteran commander.”
“Then who will lead our men to greatness against the Black Lord? You?” Roderic laughed as if the very notion insulted him.
“You didn’t take my advice, and you lost the battle. Why do you still think yourself better? You’re a disgrace.” His former friend’s voice was cold. “Guards, escort this man to the western border. Assign two deaf slaves to take him from there to our hideout in northern Nicopola. Instruct them to kill him if he ever strays.”
“You will not get away with this!” Roderic barked as they dragged him down the corridor. “The militia will hear of this. They know where their loyalties lie.”
“One more thing, Roderic,” he said, undisturbed by his threats. “I hope you don't mind losing your beloved Centurian wife. By now, she's likely being dressed in ribbons for our future ally.”
At that, Roderic howled like a madman. For the first time in months, he lost all composure, and the guards had to beat him down, which only drew laughter from the small crowd.
***
Stone Citadel, Private Quarters
Amid the ongoing crisis, the third Elder, Antonius, quietly excused himself and withdrew to his quarters. Four of his men and his servant escorted him without a word. There, another ten men were waiting, tense from everything happening outside.
“Get some rest and eat lightly,” he told them.
The men bowed their heads low. Antonius had raised them like the children he never had. He was ruthless, but caring when he needed to be, knowing his survival among the other clans depended on their loyalty.
He entered his chamber, followed only by his servant. There, his agent was waiting.
“How is it outside?” Antonius asked.
“Chaotic. Too many rumors, not enough facts.”
Antonius changed into a more comfortable robe, unashamedly revealing his aging body. Despite nearing sixty, he was in better shape than most men ten years younger, and his clean-shaven face only sharpened that impression.
Once changed, he sat and faced the waiting agent. “Has Roderic been sent away?”
“Yes. Two deaf slaves are escorting him out through a secret passage. They have orders to kill him and bury him as soon as they are out of sight," the agent readily reported.
“Good,” the Elder said, wishing for no loose ends. Even if they were found out, they could easily claim the deaf slaves had quarreled with Roderic and killed him in an accident. Nothing would lead the blame back to him.
Then Antonius asked, “How about his friends?”
“We’ve spread word that they betrayed Roderic. With chaos in the streets like this, they’ll be dead before they get home,” the agent said confidently.
The old man looked pleased. With this, the militia would be toothless even if they rose against them. “We should have done this a long time ago...”
“We could have, but you hesitated,” the agent reminded him.
“I hesitated because we still need the city to function. In governance, you cannot simply kill everyone who opposes you. That only makes you a tyrant.”
“So what changed now?” the agent asked.
His servant, a trusted intellectual slave whom he had treated almost like a son, also spoke. “Why do we need to kill him? If the ones invading us are the Black Lord’s men, we can surrender Roderic and let him shoulder the blame. And his comrades, did you not work hard to earn their trust? Why discard them now?”
“I already said I do not want loose ends, especially with people who are unpredictable,” the old man explained, while not admitting that he had simply lost his nerve and decided the risk outweighed any gain.
Then he asked them, “Do you two truly think the Black Lord’s men are behind this?”
The two exchanged glances. The servant answered first. “Last I heard, the guards still had no contact with the underground garrison.”
“My sources tell me of well-organized men roaming the streets and freeing slaves,” the agent added.
The old man was not so easily convinced. “Some of the marginalized clans could have joined together and smuggled their men into the city without us knowing.”
“Underestimating the Black Lord has been the gravest mistake everyone keeps making,” his servant warned.
The Elder rose from his seat and paced in a slow circle. Even his own servant held respect for the Black Lord. Antonius wasn’t blind. He knew many of the slaves, even those already serving in high places, secretly adored the Black Lord. Enemy or not, the man was popular.
It was precisely because Antonius understood this that he had clandestinely sent a delegation to Korelia.
“Tell me, do we have more word from our delegation?”
“Only confirmation that they reached Korelia.”
Antonius nodded. If the message had already returned, then the group must have arrived in Korelia more than a month ago. Even the fastest courier from Korelia needed thirty to forty days to reach Clavieras, forced to take the long detour through the mountains.
The agent added, “Right now, they should be making allies and seeking an audience. They carried enough gold and jewelry to open doors.”
The old man nodded. He trusted the man he had sent and knew his capabilities. Now it depended on whether Lord Lansius had actually returned to Korelia. Still, it was probably a gamble made too late. If the chaos gripping the city was truly caused by the Black Lord’s men, then all of them could be dead within a week.
Moreover, the delegation had no concrete offer beyond a personal tribute sent in Antonius’ name.
Even that was risky enough. If any of his men leaked it, the other Elders would be too eager to denounce him as a traitor and send him to the dungeon. But he had judged it a gamble worth keeping in hand. He could always claim he had only been opening a path toward a truce. Perhaps enough Elders would believe him, or at least hesitate long enough to keep him from the cold cells.
“Perhaps he really could break the stone gate...” he muttered.
“The Black Lord is frighteningly resourceful,” the servant said. “We cannot predict the full extent of his capabilities.”
“To win wars is one matter,” Antonius said. “But can he build something better? The grudges and hatred run deep in these mountains, and not all are as open-minded as I am.”
“Change comes for us all, even for the Elders,” the servant said.
“Patience,” Antonius muttered despite their situation. Then he turned to the agent. “Find out who is behind this riot. And if you can, establish contact.”
Antonius saw how the wind had shifted and knew it was wise to go with the flow. He was sixty and knew his side was built on pain, crimes, and lies. Eventually, it would all catch up. Roderic’s coup was only the tip of the problem.
When there were no consequences, greed only grew until it consumed everything. The city had more slaves than Mountain Men. It was a society bound to fail.
He just thought it would not come in his lifetime.
“Fate is cruel,” he whispered to himself. "Fate is just...”
***
The Mountain City
As the sun rose higher, the guard leader made a breakthrough. After pleading directly with several Elders, he managed to secure support from some of the largest clans. Nearly three hundred clansmen now bolstered his strength. For the first time, he seemed to have enough force to crush the riot.
Originally, he had only a hundred and fifty men. The Elders would not let him take more, insisting that at least a hundred remain to guard the Stone Citadel and the walls.
With reinforcements, he was able to lead an all-out march in force, intent on sweeping the city and catching or killing the perpetrators in one stroke.
As the men formed up in the courtyard outside the city gatehouse, the senior captain rode before them and rallied the ranks. “Men of the Mountains. This is our city. We shall take back what is rightfully ours to master.”
The men roared, not from eagerness, but from anger. Many had been waiting to be let loose, hungry to avenge the brothers lost among the missing patrols.
In hard files stood the guards, their ringmail, helmets, and spearheads catching the full morning light. Beside them, the clansmen looked rougher but no less dangerous, men used to feuds and knife work. Their shields were scarred, and many wore no helmets, but each looked as if he had killed for a living.
The captain drew his sword and thrust it high into the morning air. “Swords and spears!”
Four hundred men banged their spears against their shields. The sound rolled through the gatehouse courtyard like thunder trapped between stone walls.
Watching them stand in good order and without fear, the guard leader mounted his horse and shouted to the riders, “Let’s ride!”
Hearing that, the captain followed suit. “Guards, march out! Clansmen, march out!”
Trumpets blared, announcing their march. The force of more than four hundred and fifty men sallied out. Flags and banners of the city and the clans were proudly displayed. For all their hatred of the Imperium and the nobility, they could not resist imitating both.
The guard leader rode at the front, flanked by thirty horsemen. His captain led the men-at-arms and crossbowmen behind, followed by the eager clansmen.
Seeing them come, the crowd before the gatehouse scattered, unwilling to be trampled. Many were born slaves and knew exactly how little their lives mattered before armed clansmen.
More than half the population of Clavieras lived in servitude. Bakers, barbers, seamstresses, physicians, laborers, teachers, and even experts in contracts and law remained bondsmen, mirroring the condition of the first Imperium of old.
Some at the top received good payment, held estates, and even kept slaves of their own. But none of it truly belonged to them. Their wealth, position, and lives existed only by their master’s permission. Despite the fair treatment and even respect granted to slaves in high positions, they were not freedmen.
Even their sons and daughters were not born free, but remained the property of their masters, like livestock.
The city relied so heavily on bondsmen and their descendants that it could no longer function without them. Yet the rule of the Mountain People remained harsh, as shown by the brutal way they now answered the riot.
Marching in force, the guards and clansmen broke through barricades raised by townspeople trying to protect themselves. They cared nothing for those behind the barricades, only that they were reclaiming the city district by district, starting with the nearest streets. Under the guise of restoring order, they hunted for the riot’s ringleaders and seized anyone who looked suspicious enough.
While the people fled or hid, clansmen cheered them from their compounds, balconies, and doorways, while others kept trying to douse the flames.
The marching force cared little about the fires. The guards would rather not get involved in another clan’s business, and the clansmen were no different. They cared only for their own. Another clan’s estate burning down merely meant one rival weakened.
As they took district after district, the sun climbed toward midday. Despite the searing heat, they kept at it, seizing suspicious men and forcing the streets back under control.
Soon, reports came that numerous armed men had been seen moving toward the underground passage.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a mistake?” the guard leader asked, confused. He knew the passage was a dead end.
“Two witnesses said the same,” the messenger replied.
“The rioting slaves must be desperate and hiding down there,” his staff officer said.
“Or it's a bait,” an older guard warned.
Nothing could be certain.
“Should we split our forces?” the captain finally asked. “I could take a hundred and march down there.”
“I fear splitting our forces is unwise. We still don’t know what we’re up against," the guard leader said.
His staff waited as he considered the matter. Then he said, “Send twenty hardy men to take a look. Beware of ambush, and tell them to withdraw if they meet any resistance.”
“At once.” The Captain relayed the order to his chosen group.
Another staff officer commented, “Perhaps they’ll find men from the garrison below.”
“That would be a welcome result,” the leader said, glancing up at the searing sun. It was nearly midday. He rarely had to go out under the sun like this, especially in armor. Already, he thirsted for ice-cooled drinks.
The army was marching toward the market when two men came running down the street, shouting through ragged breaths. “Commander! Commander!”
The nearest riders turned their horses, while several guardsmen stepped forward and blocked the men’s path with lowered spears.
“Halt! What do you want?”
“A report,” one of the men gasped. “We captured a group of rioters.”
The guard leader and the captain exchanged glances. The captain gave a short command. “Let them through.”
The guards parted. The two men were brought closer, both sweating hard, their clothes stained with soot and blood. One had a cut across his cheek. The other kept looking over his shoulder, as if expecting more to come.
“Speak,” the captain ordered.
“We work for the sons of Elder—”
“Get to the point,” the captain cut in.
“Before dawn, our master’s compound was attacked by a group of slaves,” the first man said. “We managed to beat them back and captured two. We made one of them talk.”
“What did he say?” the captain asked.
The man swallowed. “He said someone freed them. Told them to run to the underground passage. Said they would be safe there.”
“Safe?” the captain repeated.
The two exchanged glances before one admitted, “We weren’t sure, but if you send men, they can question him directly.”
The captain ordered the two men to return with ten guards and bring the prisoner forward. Only after they left did he turn to the guard leader. “Whoever is responsible is in the underground passage. We should send more men quickly, before they slip from our grasp.”
“No,” the guard leader said. It wasn’t loud, but the tone left no room for argument. The rest of the command staff turned toward him.
“Your reason?” the captain asked.
“Think,” the guard leader said. “We have a sizeable garrison down there, along with a separate watch post. If they still stood, the rioters, or whoever stirred them up, would never tell people to withdraw there.”
The captain’s face tightened. “You suspect something?”
“I suspect the worst,” the leader said, controlling his restless horse with a pull of the reins. “The instigator likely came from there. And the garrison has already fallen.”
“T-that is hard to believe,” the captain muttered.
Around them, the men began to murmur.
“It isn’t impossible,” the leader said, his voice grim, “if what we’re facing is not a slave riot, but the Black Lord.”
The murmurs swelled at once, heavy with shock, fear, and disgust. Many cursed under their breath.
“Then what should we do?” the older guard asked as they neared the entrance to the underground passage.
“Pull our men back,” the leader decided. “And bring the war chest forward.”
By then, his force of more than four hundred men had surrounded the passage entrance. Guards pushed the crowd away. Clansmen sealed the side lanes. Crossbowmen took position on steps, low walls, and cart beds, their weapons aimed at the dark mouth below.
Soon, two tightly escorted carts rolled forward. Several chests sat upon them, bound in iron and marked with warning seals. Inside were jars of green miasma and burning dust.
The leader turned to the captain. “Use everything if you must. We’ll smoke them out like rats in a granary. Either they come crawling out, or they die below.”
The captain gave a grim nod and relayed the order.
The men moved quickly, opening the war chest and preparing the clay jars inside. They stuffed cloth into the mouths as fuses, lit them, and hurled the jars one by one into the underground passage. The jars bounced and rolled deeper down the slope, cracking against stone but still carrying on, hissing into the dark. More and more followed.
After more than three dozens had been thrown, pale green, deadly smoke erupted from below. It surged upward in violent bursts, almost alive.
The men nearest the entrance stumbled back, running and coughing despite the distance.
Down below, the passage was swallowed by poison.
The guard leader watched with a thin grin. “Hold the entrance,” he ordered. “Kill anything that comes out, especially rats that walk on two legs.”
***