Rise of the Horde - Chapter 587 - 586

Lord Blackwood’s investigation moved with the patient precision of a spider building a web.

In the days following the cellar meeting, he set his network to work with specific, carefully delineated tasks. Each watcher was given only enough information to complete their assignment, with no awareness of the broader picture. Blackwood had learned long ago that the best defense against exposure was compartmentalization …if no single agent understood the full scope of the investigation, then no single agent could betray it.

His first priority was Corwin Brast, the raven tower handler who had been diverting eastern correspondence.

Blackwood assigned three watchers to the man. The first observed his daily routine at the tower …arrival times, departure times, interactions with other handlers, any deviation from standard procedures. The second tracked his movements after work …where he ate, where he drank, who he spoke with, where he went. The third investigated his financial situation …how much he earned, how much he spent, whether the gap between those numbers suggested an additional income source.

The results came in over the following week, each report delivered by a different route to avoid establishing patterns.

Brast’s tower routine was unremarkable. He arrived on time, performed his duties competently, and left at the end of his shift. His interactions with other handlers were professional and minimal. He was, by all accounts, a model employee …quiet, reliable, entirely uninteresting.

His after-work activities were more revealing.

Every third evening, Brast left his modest boarding house near the tower district and walked to a tavern called the Copper Anchor in the merchant quarter. He always sat at the same table, always ordered the same drink …a dark ale served in a clay mug …and always waited precisely one hour. Sometimes he was joined by another person. Sometimes he was not. When company arrived, it was always the same individual: a woman in her middle years, dark-haired, dressed in the plain but well-made clothing of a successful merchant’s wife. They spoke quietly, their conversation invisible beneath the general noise of the tavern. Then they parted, leaving through separate doors.

The financial investigation was even more telling. Brast earned a tower handler’s salary …modest but adequate. He spent considerably more than that salary should have allowed. His lodgings, while not luxurious, was in a better district than most handlers could afford. His clothing was of higher quality. And most damning, Blackwood’s watcher had observed him making deposits at a small counting house that specialized in anonymous accounts …the kind used by merchants who wanted to keep their earnings private from tax collectors, or by individuals who had money they didn’t want traced to its source.

The deposits were regular. Consistent. Far too large for a tower handler’s supplementary income.

Blackwood compiled these findings in his cramped handwriting and stored them in a locked chest in his private study, behind a false panel in the wall that he had installed himself, trusting no craftsman with the knowledge of its existence.

The woman at the Copper Anchor was the key. She was Brast’s handler …his connection to whoever was paying him. Follow her, and the trail would lead upward through the conspiracy’s structure.

Blackwood assigned his best watcher to the task. A woman named Sera who had worked for him for twelve years, a former street performer whose gift for assuming different appearances and personas made her virtually impossible to follow and nearly as impossible to detect when following someone else. Sera could be a flower seller one day, a washerwoman the next, a visiting noblewoman’s maid the day after. She changed her walk, her posture, even the apparent shape of her body through clever use of padding and clothing. She was, in Blackwood’s assessment, one of the five most skilled operatives in the capital, and no one outside his network knew she existed.

“The woman from the Copper Anchor,” Blackwood told Sera during a carefully arranged meeting in a bookshop where both happened to be browsing on opposite sides of the same shelf. “I need to know where she goes after the tavern. Where she lives. Who she works for. What name she uses.”

“Timeline?” Sera asked, not looking up from the book she was leafing through.

“As fast as you can manage without being detected. If you feel you’re being watched, abort immediately. These people are dangerous.”

“Aren’t they all,” Sera murmured, and replaced the book on the shelf.

She left the bookshop three minutes before Blackwood, carrying a small parcel of purchased volumes that provided a perfectly mundane explanation for her visit.

*****

The results came in six days later.

The woman’s name was Irina Ashford. Outwardly, she was the wife of a prosperous fabric merchant named Tobias Ashford, whose business operated from a warehouse in the eastern commercial district. They lived in a comfortable townhouse in the merchant quarter, hosted modest dinner parties, contributed to charitable causes, and were by all appearances a perfectly ordinary, perfectly respectable couple.

Sera’s investigation revealed a different picture.

“The husband is rarely home,” Sera reported through a system of coded messages left at predetermined drop points. “When he is, he seems genuinely occupied with his fabric business. I believe the wife operates independently of his knowledge. Her schedule includes regular visits to three locations beyond the tavern: a counting house on Silver Street, a private residence in the northeastern district, and a building near the old market that appears to be a message relay point.”

The northeastern district. Where the old Arass properties were located.

Blackwood felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

The private residence was the crucial link. Sera described it as a manor house in moderate disrepair, surrounded by overgrown gardens, its windows shuttered and its entrances monitored by watchers who tried very hard to look like they weren’t watching anything.

“The woman enters through a side door,” Sera continued in her report. “She stays between one and three hours. When she leaves, she always checks her surroundings before departing. Classic counter-surveillance behavior. She’s been trained.”

Blackwood now had a chain: Brast at the raven tower, receiving and diverting correspondence. Irina Ashford as the intermediary, collecting reports from Brast and delivering them to the manor house. The manor house itself, almost certainly an Arass operational center.

But he needed more. He needed to confirm the Arass connection. He needed to identify who was inside that manor house. And he needed to do it without alerting the residents that they were being watched.

This required patience. And patience was something Lord Blackwood had in abundance.

He instructed Sera to maintain distant observation of the manor house …never approaching within two blocks, never establishing a fixed observation point, never following the same route twice. Document everything visible from a distance: who enters, who leaves, what they carry, how they move.

And then he waited.

*****

While Blackwood tracked the conspiracy’s operational network, Duke Remington worked the political angles.

His approach was characteristically direct, though executed with a subtlety that surprised those who knew him primarily as a blunt-spoken southern landowner. Remington understood that building a political coalition against a hidden enemy required a different kind of diplomacy than the usual horse-trading and favor-swapping that characterized court life.

He couldn’t simply approach potential allies and say, “I believe the council is infiltrated by the remnants of a purged dark-arts family.” That kind of statement, without proof, would mark him as either a madman or a provocateur. Neither reputation was useful.

Instead, he focused on creating a network of shared concern.

His first approach was to Lady Meridia Croft, whose family controlled significant shipping interests along the coast. Lady Croft was smart, practical, and notably independent of both the pro-Arass faction and the burdened houses’ circle. She had voted with the majority on the troop deployment resolution, but Remington had noticed her expression during the debate …the slight narrowing of her eyes when Severus presented his financial arguments, the way her pen had paused over her notes when Lord Castellan delivered his endorsement.

She was suspicious. She just didn’t have enough information to act on it.

Remington invited her to lunch at his estate, ostensibly to discuss a trade partnership between his grain operations and her shipping fleet. Over roast pheasant and an excellent wine from his southern vineyards, they discussed agricultural yields, shipping tariffs, and weather patterns with the comfortable ease of two people who genuinely enjoyed the other’s company.

Then, as dessert was served, Remington steered the conversation toward the council session.

“I noticed you were quiet during the debate about troop deployment,” he said casually, cutting into a pastry. “Usually you have an opinion on military expenditure.”

Lady Croft set down her wine glass with deliberate care. “I had opinions. I chose not to voice them.”

“Because?”

“Because the room felt… directed. Like a performance where the conclusion was predetermined and the debate was merely staging.” She met his eyes. “You felt it too.”

“I felt something. I’m still trying to determine exactly what.”

“The Master of Coin proposed a massive deployment and then specifically targeted four houses to bear the cost. Houses that happen to have the weakest political connections to the council’s inner circle. Houses that would be significantly weakened by the financial burden.” She paused. “If I were a suspicious woman, I might think someone was using a military crisis to settle scores or advance an agenda that had nothing to do with orcs.”

“And are you a suspicious woman, Lady Croft?”

“I’m a shipping merchant, Duke Remington. In my business, cargo sometimes disappears between port and destination. When it does, I’ve learned that the explanation is almost never coincidence and almost always involves someone who benefits from the loss.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Someone benefits from weakening your houses. Someone benefits from keeping the eastern armies undersupplied and isolated. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why. But the pattern is there if you look for it.”

Remington filed this exchange away with satisfaction. Lady Croft was not yet an ally …she was too cautious for premature commitments …but she was an informed observer who had independently identified the same pattern. When the time came to present evidence, she would be receptive.

He made similar approaches to three other minor lords and two guild masters over the following week, each conversation carefully calibrated to plant seeds of awareness without revealing the full scope of his suspicions. Each time, he found varying degrees of receptiveness …some dismissive, some curious, some quietly alarmed.

The picture that emerged was encouraging. The Arass faction’s control of the council, while extensive, was not total. There were cracks. Gaps. Lords and ladies who sensed something wrong even if they couldn’t articulate what. Each one was a potential ally, a vote that could be turned when evidence was finally presented.

Remington reported his progress to Fairfax through a system of coded messages delivered via personal servants who traveled indirect routes …servants who had been carefully vetted and who believed they were carrying mundane correspondence about trade matters.

*****

Lord Harring, meanwhile, discovered something that transformed the investigation from theoretical to urgent.

As the youngest of the four allied lords, Harring had been assigned what initially seemed like the most straightforward task: managing the recruitment effort while placing trusted officers in command positions. He threw himself into the work with the energy of a young man who had finally found a purpose worthy of his training, spending long days at the recruitment camps that were springing up across his territory as two thousand five hundred men answered the call to serve.

It was during an inspection of the quartermaster’s records at the main recruitment camp that he found the discrepancy.

The camp’s quartermaster, a competent but overworked sergeant named Voss, had been processing equipment requisitions submitted by the crown’s supply office …the same office that answered to Master of Coin Severus. These requisitions specified the type and quantity of equipment to be provided to each batch of recruits: weapons, armor, provisions, medical supplies.

Harring reviewed the requisitions as part of his standard oversight, comparing the listed equipment to what had actually been delivered. Most items matched. Swords, spears, basic leather armor, boots, blankets …all present and accounted for.

But the arrows were wrong.

The requisition specified “standard military-grade arrow bundles, iron-tipped, forty per recruit.” What had been delivered were bundles marked with the correct labels but containing arrows that Harring, with his military training, immediately recognized as substandard. The shafts were thinner than regulation. The fletching was poorly attached. And the iron tips, while adequate for practice, would bend or break on impact with any decent armor.

They were training arrows. Not combat arrows.

The difference would be invisible to anyone who didn’t know what to look for. A quartermaster counting bundles would see the correct number and check the box. A recruit picking up his issued equipment would receive what appeared to be a standard arrow bundle. Only someone with the specific expertise to examine individual arrows and compare them against military specifications would notice.

Harring examined ten bundles. All contained the same substandard arrows.

He said nothing to the quartermaster. Instead, he took three arrows from different bundles, wrapped them carefully in cloth, and returned to his estate, where he spent the evening conducting a careful analysis.

The arrows had been manufactured recently …the wood was fresh, the glue on the fletching still slightly tacky. They bore the standard marks of the Royal Armory, but Harring knew the armory’s work. These marks were wrong. Not obviously wrong …the stamp was the correct shape, the positioning correct, the ink the right color. But the pressure was inconsistent, as if applied by a different hand using a copied tool rather than the original die.

Counterfeit arrows. Bearing forged armory marks. Delivered through official supply channels controlled by Severus’s office.

Which meant either the Royal Armory was producing substandard equipment …unlikely, given their centuries-old reputation …or someone had substituted the real arrows with fakes somewhere between the armory and the recruitment camps.

Harring’s hands trembled as he wrapped the sample arrows and locked them in his desk. This was different from intercepted messages or financial irregularities. This was sabotage of military equipment. Equipment that would be carried by soldiers into combat zones where the difference between a good arrow and a bad one was the difference between life and death.

Someone was not merely manipulating information.

Someone was actively ensuring that the reinforcements being sent east would arrive underequipped. That even if the supply caravans got through, even if the soldiers reached the front lines, they would be fighting with weapons that would fail them at the critical moment.

Harring wrote a coded message to Fairfax that night, his normally steady handwriting made jagged by barely controlled fury.

“Found physical evidence. Equipment sabotage. Arrows substituted with substandard counterfeits bearing forged armory marks. Delivered through official channels. This is not just manipulation …this is attempted murder of ten thousand soldiers by ensuring they fight with weapons that will break. Meeting requested at earliest opportunity. I have samples.”

He sealed the message and dispatched it via the route they had established.

Then he sat alone in his study and stared at the three counterfeit arrows lying on his desk, their substandard iron tips gleaming dully in the candlelight.

He was thirty-two years old. He had inherited his title three years ago. He had spent most of his brief career as a lord managing agricultural policies and mediating land disputes between tenant farmers.

Now he was holding evidence of a conspiracy that reached into the heart of the kingdom’s government, and he was one of only four people who knew about it.

The weight of that knowledge settled onto his shoulders like a physical burden.

But it didn’t break them.

Lord Edgar Harring had been trained as a soldier before he became a lord. And soldiers, he knew, did not break under weight.

They adapted.

They fought.

And they didn’t stop until the mission was complete.

He locked the arrows away, extinguished his candle, and went to bed.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

*****

In the days that followed Harring’s discovery, the young lord threw himself into the investigation with the disciplined intensity of a man trained for war who had finally found a battle worth fighting.

He returned to the recruitment camps under the guise of routine inspections …a responsibility well within his rights as the recruiting lord for his territory. He brought with him two men he trusted absolutely: his former sergeant-at-arms, a weathered veteran named Aric Wren who had served the Harring household for twenty years, and a metallurgist named Thomas Greer who operated a small but reputable forge on the outskirts of Harring’s provincial capital.

Greer’s expertise was essential. While Harring could identify substandard arrows by sight and feel …his military training had ensured that …he needed a professional who could document the deficiencies with the technical precision that would withstand scrutiny in a formal inquiry.

They worked methodically, camp by camp, requisition by requisition. Greer examined samples from every equipment shipment that had arrived through official channels, testing iron quality, wood seasoning, leather treatment, and assembly standards against the military specifications that every armorer in the kingdom was required to follow.

The results were damning.

The arrows were the most obviously sabotaged, but they were not the only items that had been compromised. Greer found that approximately one in three sword blades contained an excess of carbon that would make them brittle under impact …functional for training and light use, but liable to snap at the worst possible moment in actual combat. The leather used in roughly half the issued armor had been insufficiently tanned, meaning it would stiffen and crack in wet conditions, providing far less protection than its appearance suggested.

“Someone who knew exactly what they were doing chose these specific deficiencies,” Greer told Harring during a quiet evening examination in the lord’s private quarters. “These aren’t random manufacturing errors. They’re targeted weaknesses. The kind that pass visual inspection but fail under combat stress. Whoever specified these substitutions understood both military equipment requirements and the limitations of quality control at scale.”

“How difficult would it be to organize this level of sabotage?” Harring asked.

Greer considered the question carefully. “You’d need control of the supply chain at the procurement level. The ability to specify materials and suppliers for the equipment contracts. And you’d need a network of compliant manufacturers willing to produce substandard goods and mark them as standard quality.”

“Could one person do this?”

“From the right position? Yes. The Master of Coin’s office oversees military procurement. A single individual with authority over contract specifications could redirect orders to preferred suppliers, adjust material requirements in the paperwork, and arrange for quality inspections to be conducted by… cooperative inspectors.”

Harring documented everything. Every deficient item was catalogued, measured, and described in Greer’s precise technical language. Samples were collected, sealed, and stored in Harring’s personal vault. A paper trail was being built …methodical, comprehensive, and irrefutable.

And while the evidence grew, Harring also worked the human angle. He spent his evenings in the recruitment camps, sharing meals with the enlisted men and their junior officers. Not as a lord dispensing condescension, but as a former soldier who understood the grim brotherhood of military life. He listened to their concerns, observed their training, and quietly assessed which officers demonstrated the kind of competence and loyalty that might be needed when the time came.

He identified twelve officers across his recruitment camps who met his criteria: experienced, trustworthy, unbeholden to any noble house’s patronage system, and personally loyal to the men they commanded rather than to abstract political structures. He memorized their names, their capabilities, and their command styles.

He told none of them what he knew. Not yet. But he ensured that each was placed in a position of operational significance …leading companies, managing logistics, commanding guard detachments …where they could act quickly and decisively if circumstances required.

Lord Edgar Harring was building an army within an army.

And he was doing it with the same quiet precision that Lord Blackwood brought to his surveillance operations and Duke Remington brought to his political coalition.

Four lords. Four parallel efforts. Each one a thread being woven into a rope strong enough to hang a conspiracy.