The smoke from Vigar's burned estates hung on the southern horizon like a thick, dirty shroud, a wall separating the world of the living from the kingdom of the dead. Valos watched it from the balcony of his reception hall, absently tapping his fingers on the stone balustrade. He did not see tragedy; he saw *pressure*. And that pressure needed to be channeled in the right direction.
«The perfect storm. Vigar's folly, the necromancer's ambitions, and my forced virtue. All that remains is to reap the harvest.»
The door opened with a soft creak. Into the hall, dusty and aged ten years in the last week, walked Lord Vigar. Lord Vigar was a man of about fifty, with a puffy face reddened by wind and wine, framed by lush but rapidly graying red sideburns. In his eyes, ringed with dark circles, danced reflections of the nightmare that had descended upon his lands. His once-luxurious doublet was stained, his armor dented, and in his eyes lay a mixture of animal terror and the smoldering embers of former arrogance. Behind him, like a shadow, followed Corvus; his new rapier rested peacefully at his belt, but he himself looked like a poised hammer.
— Lord Vigar, — Valos did not turn, continuing to gaze at the smoke. — How pleasant to see you in good health. Your messenger was so eloquent that I could almost smell your despair from here.
Vigar swallowed, and his Adam's apple fluttered like a trapped bird. *He is enjoying this. That damned upstart is enjoying my humiliation!*
— Jokes are inappropriate, Tropan! — Vigar blurted out, but there was no strength in his voice, only a shrill note. — My lands are burning! My people are dying! And you are sitting behind your… fortified walls!
Finally, Valos turned. His face was utterly impassive.
— Precisely. I am sitting. Because I have walls worth reinforcing. Because I have people I did not abandon to my own pride. You, if I recall, quite recently accused me of every mortal sin and demanded monetary compensation for moral damages. And now you crawl here begging for help. *An interesting transformation.*
He slowly walked to the table, cluttered with maps and reports.
— I am not a charity, Vigar. Nor am I a knight from a fairy tale. I am a pragmatist. And my help comes at a price.
— I'm listening, — Vigar rasped, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.
— Excellent. The conditions are simple. First, from this moment until the end of the current crisis, all your surviving troops, resources, and you yourself come under my sole command. Unconditionally and without the right to debate. You are a junior officer in my army. Your opinion interests me only insofar as it is useful to the cause.
Vigar's face turned crimson. *He… he dares speak to me like a serf!*
— Second, after the war, regardless of its outcome, your barony will pay reparations to the Barony of Tropan. Half the harvest from your surviving lands for the next five years. And twenty percent of your mining income — also for five years.
— This is robbery! — Vigar exploded. — You will leave my people with nothing!
— Your people already have nothing, — Valos countered coldly. — I am offering them a chance to survive. Without me, they will have neither food nor shelter, because their liege lord was too foolish to see the threat right in front of him.
— And third, all those onerous contracts you spent decades extracting from my father, using his honor against him, are null and void. Here and now. We return to the original, fair terms that existed under my grandfather.
Vigar swayed. He looked as if he had just been punched in the gut. All his trump cards, all his power, all his influence — all of it Valos swept off the table in one stroke.
— You… cannot… this… — he gasped.
— I can, — Valos's voice grew softer. — Because the alternative is to watch the army of the dead butcher your remaining subjects and then storm your castle. Without my help, forgive the expression, you will die. Proudly, foolishly, and pointlessly. I am offering you life. Humiliating, costly, but life. The choice is yours.
Vigar stepped back, his gaze darting to Corvus, to the doors, to the window — searching for salvation that did not exist. He was trapped, and they both knew it.
A tense silence fell, broken only by the baron's heavy breathing. He stared at Valos, and in his eyes raged a war: pride versus survival instinct, arrogance versus fear.
— And if… if I refuse? — he exhaled, already knowing the answer.
— Then I will politely escort you to the gates and wish you luck in your… independent defense, — Valos shrugged. — And afterward, I will deal with the necromancer and his army without your involvement. Though your lands by that point, most likely, will no longer exist. But your pride will be saved. For a few hours.
Survival instinct won. Vigar's shoulders sagged; he seemed to deflate.
— Fine, — the word sounded like a death rattle. — I… accept your conditions.
— Brilliant, — Valos smiled again. — Corvus, please provide Lord Vigar with ink and parchment. We'll make this official. Not because I don't trust you, but for the record.
As the humiliated baron, with trembling hands, signed his capitulation, Valos walked to the window. The smoke on the horizon now seemed to him not a threat, but a sign of coming change.
— Do not take it so to heart, Lord Vigar, — Valos said without turning. — After all, you are getting what you came for. My help. It's just that the price turned out… somewhat higher than you expected.
He turned, and his gaze fell upon the gleaming blade at Corvus's belt.
— And now that we are allies, it's time to discuss how we are going to win this war. I have a few ideas. And they will require your… full cooperation.