The Great Raid: Successions and Failures
9th of December in the Year 774 of the Millennium of Flame
Night
Drake Dununge, gosling Count of Austisland in the duchy of Asarcornisen, sat awake reading by the light of a candle. He was not supposed to be doing so; he had been put to bed more than an hour prior. However, the little eleven-year-old had tossed and turned in his nest until finally giving up on falling asleep and opting instead to re-read the funny little picture-poem book that the human foreigner Adrien had created for him.
Drake liked Adrien immensely—the diplomat was such a funny, friendly fellow. Courtiers had told the little count not to trust him; he was from the bad isles, one of the southern savages who had attacked them in the past. But Count Drake knew they had beaten back the savages all three times they had attacked, and not once had Adrien lifted a finger to aid his barbaric brethren. In fact, when word of the most recent sighting of the Fairy Fleet reached Count Drake (apparently raiders had shown up to attack Duke Arne’s capital of Hvamm back in early October of the previous year), Adrien had been in Drake’s presence at the time the report was read and applauded the valiant Geeseguard’s victory with the rest of the courtiers. Besides, Drake was not alone in his enjoyment of Adrien’s company: most of the goslings at court felt similarly warm towards the foreigner.
A commotion outside his door interrupted the young count’s perusal through the book, prompting him to swiftly snuff his candle and tuck his head under a wing to feign slumber. He listened attentively, heart pounding in his chest. Last time he had been caught awake after bedtime his nursemaid had confiscated all of his toys and kept them from him for the entire rest of the following day. Drake was rather rambunctious and trouble-prone, to be sure, but that didn’t mean he took pleasure in getting reprimanded.
“You must let me through!” honked an agitated voice. Drake recognized that deep, authoritative baritone: it was Mayor Gladstone of Reyðarfjall.
Though he strove to be a model defender of the faith, Gladstone’s obsessive jealousy in relationships with the fairer sex made him more feared than idolized
“The count is sleeping. Whatever your business, it can wait,” growled the count’s night-watchman. Mayor Gladstone served as the count’s marshal, which had given him authority over Austisland’s levies. However, contrary to Gladstone’s belief, the role did not give him control of the count’s household guard. Friction between the marshal and the captain-of-the-guard had swiftly evolved into friction between the levies and the guardsmen, which now ensured tense standoffs whenever members of either faction came into contact with one another. Drake did not quite grasp why two groups sworn to his protection could not simply work together, but in the end he felt like the issue did not really concern him one way or the other.
“It is barely past twilight. Nobody is sleeping,” protested the mayor.
“Except the count,” the guard snapped.
“My business does not concern a count! My business concerns the duke!” Gladstone asserted forcefully. “Now stand aside or I shall go through you!”
“Try it,” the guard jeered.
Drake wondered what Mayor Gladstone felt was so important about the duke that he needed to barge into the count’s bedchambers after bedtime to announce it. Count Drake did not like Duke Arne, not one bit. Duke Arne was a mean old snob, always judging everyone and demanding all the attention. He especially hated Count Drake, because without an heir of his own the count was the de facto heir apparent to the duchy of Asarcornisen. Duke Arne had made it perfectly clear on many occasions he intended the ducal title to pass on only to those of his family, even going so far as to frighten the little Drake with threats when they were in private. Drake didn’t even want the ducal title; if it made people turn out like Arne, it couldn’t be very much fun at all to be a duke.
Regardless of Duke Arne’s bad attitude, there was also the mess that had occurred this very year. After the Fairy Fleet fled from the Geeseguard, the evil Chief Boson had apparently opted for more insidious methods of sowing discord in the duchy. Rumors had reached Austisland that Duke Arne had discovered a claim to the county. These rumors were soon reinforced when Mayor Gladstone confirmed Duke Arne had begun privately amassing soldiers for unknown purposes. All throughout March and April the political climate had grown increasingly tense, to the point that even the peasantry spoke of looming civil war.
They may excel at repelling Fairies, but how shall they fare against each other?
Count Drake’s chancellor had made it his personal mission to abort the brewing conflict, spending countless hours pouring through legal documentation before ultimately riding to the capital itself to study the evidence in question firsthand. Doubtful of the chancellor’s chances of success, Mayor Gladstone had assembled the county’s levies and urged Drake to reach out to his northern neighbor Count Nottington for assistance. Count Nottington had been reluctant to commit to a side, but Drake’s steward hypothesized that Nottington would almost certainly align with them if a civil war did break out to preserve the balance of power between the counts and the duke. Ultimately Nottington’s loyalties had not been put to the test however; Count Drake’s chancellor had at the very last possible moment exposed the document Duke Arne based his claim off of as fraudulent.
In the battle of swords, victorious. In the battle of wits…
In early May Duke Arne arrived in person to apologize to Count Drake for the fiasco. He explained the fake claim had reached him by way of Chief Boson’s spies, though he had not been aware of that fact at the time. It was all a terrible mistake, and one he deeply regretted.
“This unfortunate incident is a blight on our duchy’s history, and I hope with my humble apology here today we can forever put it behind us,” Duke Arne had said.
Count Drake’s chancellor had started to respond, but Drake had cut him off. “You shouldn’t have done anything anyway! This is my county, fair and square! You’re a bad duke!”
Before Duke Arne could respond Count Drake had stuck his tongue out at him and darted out of the hall. He could tell the duke was not sorry that a war had almost happened; indeed, if anything that bully was sorrier that it hadn’t. Duke Arne had eyed Count Drake’s home and lands with envy and bitterness as his entourage rode in, everyone said so. That he had to humiliate himself here was only justice, and Count Drake would not do anything to make the moment easier on his liegelord.
Count Drake’s chancellor had explained afterwards that the duke was under a lot of stress. Having spent time in the duke’s court whilst examining the fake claim, he could confirm Duke Arne had grown increasingly obsessed with the savages to their south. Chief Boson and the threat he posed was all Duke Arne talked about, and seizing Count Drake’s lands had appealed to the duke precisely because it would allow him to consolidate power to protect himself from the bloodthirsty infidels. Count Drake did recall the duke looking somewhat haggard and sleep-deprived, though Arne hid it well behind fancy clothes and well-groomed plumage. Still, if that was supposed to excuse the months of fear and uncertainty he had subjected Count Drake and his court to then the duke would be sorely disappointed.
Duke Arne’s condition had only worsened when in June Adrien had delivered Chief Boson’s response to the outraged diplomatic inquiry regarding the fake claim. Adrien had been taken back to Hvamm with the duke’s entourage when the duke departed Austisland after his official apology. Upon his return Count Drake brought him before the court to explain what had happened. Adrien reluctantly repeated the message from his chieftain for them, and for a full minute afterwards no-one in the court had said a word.
A threat… and a promise
“You feeble, arrogant oaf. This is but the beginning. Your misery will never end so long as I draw breath,” Adrien had recited. “You shall never know peace, whether I bring war by the blade or war by the word. Sleep if you dare, but know that I shall not rest until all that you hold dear is wrenched away from you and you lie broken beneath my boot. Look forward to the day of my return; it is coming sooner than you think.”
Even Count Drake had been cowed into silence, a rare occurrence for him. He had looked at Adrien in a different light in the following days, though Adrien made a great effort to ensure things returned to the way they had been as soon as possible. Regardless of what Drake thought of Adrien’s master, he found it impossible to fear the silly, jovial diplomat for long. Besides, the message had been for Duke Arne, not him, and Count Drake did not have very much sympathy to spare for the duke in light of recent events.
“Do you honestly think I would barge in here like this if it were not important?” Mayor Gladstone demanded, returning Drake’s attention to the altercation occurring just outside his door. “Stand aside this instant! For the good of Austisland!”
“I’m the night-watchman tonight. I’ll be relieved in a few hours’ time. I’ll stand down then. And not before,” the guard informed the marshal.
Abruptly sounds of a scuffle became audible, and just as abruptly they ceased. Drake took his head out from under his wing, peering through the dark at his door. Curiosity was beginning to get the better of him, and he wondered if he might be able to peek through the gap under the door and see what was going on. The sounds of physical conflict resumed, louder this time, and Drake guessed that Mayor Gladstone had decided it would be more expedient to push past the guard only to discover the guard was no pushover. Who was on duty tonight? Was it Billiam? Tufton? If it was noisy, musclebound Spruce Spanner, whom everyone called the Incredible Honk, there was no way Gladstone would ever get through.
“Just what is going on here?” Drake heard his nursemaid shout in her most imperious tone. The sounds of struggle immediately ended.
“Mistress Mayfeathers,” Mayor Gladstone addressed her, clearing his throat. “I have urgent business with our liege. I must be permitted entry at once.”
“Count Drake is sleeping,” the nursemaid told the mayor. “Unless your hooliganism woke him up. And even then, he is not to be disturbed. He is a growing gosling and it is past his bedtime.”
“Listen to me! There isn’t time for this!” Gladstone urged.
“I think you meant to say ‘This isn’t the time for this,’ which I wholeheartedly agree with,” Mistress Mayfeathers sniffed.
“You heard the lady, waddle off,” the guard commanded.
“Duke Arne is dead!” Mayor Gladstone blurted out. His words were followed by a stunned silence.
He who honks last…
“Wh-what?” Drake’s nursemaid eventually stammered.
“Dead! He was found early this morning! There are men coming this very moment to take Drake to the capital! He must be ready for them!” Gladstone cried.
“How?” the guard croaked.
“He’s been depressed for months. Erratic. Volatile. The stress probably got to him,” Gladstone said impatiently. “I don’t know precisely how, but I’ve heard it was suicide. Regardless, Arne had no children. Drake is now the Duke of Asarcornisen.”
Drake’s bill dropped open. He was the duke now? Just like that? It sounded absurd! He went to bed a count, and a count was all he wanted to be! And who was coming for him? What did they want? Why did they want him in the capital? His head was spinning, and for a moment Drake thought he would fall out of his nest.
“Drake is too young to be the duke! Who will be the regent?” Mistress Mayfeathers asked.
“Nottington, if I had to guess,” Gladstone replied. “At least, it’s Nottington summoning Drake to court. No doubt he wants him under his wing as soon as possible.”
“He cannot go! He’s just a gosling!” Mistress Mayfeathers insisted.
“It’s not up to you!” Gladstone bellowed, losing his patience at last. “Or you, you plucking imbecile! Get out of my way!”
The guard protested but this time failed to stop Mayor Gladstone from shoving his way in. The door to Drake’s bedchambers creaked open and torchlight spilled into the dark room. Drake stared at the geese piling in, his eyes wide.
“My liege,” Mayor Gladstone began, dipping his head respectfully. “I hope I did not wake you, but it is good you are awake. There is something important we need to discuss.”
Duke Drake gulped and rose. “Yes indeed. I need to know what to bring with me to the capital.”
Night
Drake Dununge, gosling Count of Austisland in the duchy of Asarcornisen, sat awake reading by the light of a candle. He was not supposed to be doing so; he had been put to bed more than an hour prior. However, the little eleven-year-old had tossed and turned in his nest until finally giving up on falling asleep and opting instead to re-read the funny little picture-poem book that the human foreigner Adrien had created for him.
Drake liked Adrien immensely—the diplomat was such a funny, friendly fellow. Courtiers had told the little count not to trust him; he was from the bad isles, one of the southern savages who had attacked them in the past. But Count Drake knew they had beaten back the savages all three times they had attacked, and not once had Adrien lifted a finger to aid his barbaric brethren. In fact, when word of the most recent sighting of the Fairy Fleet reached Count Drake (apparently raiders had shown up to attack Duke Arne’s capital of Hvamm back in early October of the previous year), Adrien had been in Drake’s presence at the time the report was read and applauded the valiant Geeseguard’s victory with the rest of the courtiers. Besides, Drake was not alone in his enjoyment of Adrien’s company: most of the goslings at court felt similarly warm towards the foreigner.
A commotion outside his door interrupted the young count’s perusal through the book, prompting him to swiftly snuff his candle and tuck his head under a wing to feign slumber. He listened attentively, heart pounding in his chest. Last time he had been caught awake after bedtime his nursemaid had confiscated all of his toys and kept them from him for the entire rest of the following day. Drake was rather rambunctious and trouble-prone, to be sure, but that didn’t mean he took pleasure in getting reprimanded.
“You must let me through!” honked an agitated voice. Drake recognized that deep, authoritative baritone: it was Mayor Gladstone of Reyðarfjall.
Though he strove to be a model defender of the faith, Gladstone’s obsessive jealousy in relationships with the fairer sex made him more feared than idolized
“The count is sleeping. Whatever your business, it can wait,” growled the count’s night-watchman. Mayor Gladstone served as the count’s marshal, which had given him authority over Austisland’s levies. However, contrary to Gladstone’s belief, the role did not give him control of the count’s household guard. Friction between the marshal and the captain-of-the-guard had swiftly evolved into friction between the levies and the guardsmen, which now ensured tense standoffs whenever members of either faction came into contact with one another. Drake did not quite grasp why two groups sworn to his protection could not simply work together, but in the end he felt like the issue did not really concern him one way or the other.
“It is barely past twilight. Nobody is sleeping,” protested the mayor.
“Except the count,” the guard snapped.
“My business does not concern a count! My business concerns the duke!” Gladstone asserted forcefully. “Now stand aside or I shall go through you!”
“Try it,” the guard jeered.
Drake wondered what Mayor Gladstone felt was so important about the duke that he needed to barge into the count’s bedchambers after bedtime to announce it. Count Drake did not like Duke Arne, not one bit. Duke Arne was a mean old snob, always judging everyone and demanding all the attention. He especially hated Count Drake, because without an heir of his own the count was the de facto heir apparent to the duchy of Asarcornisen. Duke Arne had made it perfectly clear on many occasions he intended the ducal title to pass on only to those of his family, even going so far as to frighten the little Drake with threats when they were in private. Drake didn’t even want the ducal title; if it made people turn out like Arne, it couldn’t be very much fun at all to be a duke.
Regardless of Duke Arne’s bad attitude, there was also the mess that had occurred this very year. After the Fairy Fleet fled from the Geeseguard, the evil Chief Boson had apparently opted for more insidious methods of sowing discord in the duchy. Rumors had reached Austisland that Duke Arne had discovered a claim to the county. These rumors were soon reinforced when Mayor Gladstone confirmed Duke Arne had begun privately amassing soldiers for unknown purposes. All throughout March and April the political climate had grown increasingly tense, to the point that even the peasantry spoke of looming civil war.
They may excel at repelling Fairies, but how shall they fare against each other?
Count Drake’s chancellor had made it his personal mission to abort the brewing conflict, spending countless hours pouring through legal documentation before ultimately riding to the capital itself to study the evidence in question firsthand. Doubtful of the chancellor’s chances of success, Mayor Gladstone had assembled the county’s levies and urged Drake to reach out to his northern neighbor Count Nottington for assistance. Count Nottington had been reluctant to commit to a side, but Drake’s steward hypothesized that Nottington would almost certainly align with them if a civil war did break out to preserve the balance of power between the counts and the duke. Ultimately Nottington’s loyalties had not been put to the test however; Count Drake’s chancellor had at the very last possible moment exposed the document Duke Arne based his claim off of as fraudulent.
In the battle of swords, victorious. In the battle of wits…
In early May Duke Arne arrived in person to apologize to Count Drake for the fiasco. He explained the fake claim had reached him by way of Chief Boson’s spies, though he had not been aware of that fact at the time. It was all a terrible mistake, and one he deeply regretted.
“This unfortunate incident is a blight on our duchy’s history, and I hope with my humble apology here today we can forever put it behind us,” Duke Arne had said.
Count Drake’s chancellor had started to respond, but Drake had cut him off. “You shouldn’t have done anything anyway! This is my county, fair and square! You’re a bad duke!”
Before Duke Arne could respond Count Drake had stuck his tongue out at him and darted out of the hall. He could tell the duke was not sorry that a war had almost happened; indeed, if anything that bully was sorrier that it hadn’t. Duke Arne had eyed Count Drake’s home and lands with envy and bitterness as his entourage rode in, everyone said so. That he had to humiliate himself here was only justice, and Count Drake would not do anything to make the moment easier on his liegelord.
Count Drake’s chancellor had explained afterwards that the duke was under a lot of stress. Having spent time in the duke’s court whilst examining the fake claim, he could confirm Duke Arne had grown increasingly obsessed with the savages to their south. Chief Boson and the threat he posed was all Duke Arne talked about, and seizing Count Drake’s lands had appealed to the duke precisely because it would allow him to consolidate power to protect himself from the bloodthirsty infidels. Count Drake did recall the duke looking somewhat haggard and sleep-deprived, though Arne hid it well behind fancy clothes and well-groomed plumage. Still, if that was supposed to excuse the months of fear and uncertainty he had subjected Count Drake and his court to then the duke would be sorely disappointed.
Duke Arne’s condition had only worsened when in June Adrien had delivered Chief Boson’s response to the outraged diplomatic inquiry regarding the fake claim. Adrien had been taken back to Hvamm with the duke’s entourage when the duke departed Austisland after his official apology. Upon his return Count Drake brought him before the court to explain what had happened. Adrien reluctantly repeated the message from his chieftain for them, and for a full minute afterwards no-one in the court had said a word.
A threat… and a promise
“You feeble, arrogant oaf. This is but the beginning. Your misery will never end so long as I draw breath,” Adrien had recited. “You shall never know peace, whether I bring war by the blade or war by the word. Sleep if you dare, but know that I shall not rest until all that you hold dear is wrenched away from you and you lie broken beneath my boot. Look forward to the day of my return; it is coming sooner than you think.”
Even Count Drake had been cowed into silence, a rare occurrence for him. He had looked at Adrien in a different light in the following days, though Adrien made a great effort to ensure things returned to the way they had been as soon as possible. Regardless of what Drake thought of Adrien’s master, he found it impossible to fear the silly, jovial diplomat for long. Besides, the message had been for Duke Arne, not him, and Count Drake did not have very much sympathy to spare for the duke in light of recent events.
“Do you honestly think I would barge in here like this if it were not important?” Mayor Gladstone demanded, returning Drake’s attention to the altercation occurring just outside his door. “Stand aside this instant! For the good of Austisland!”
“I’m the night-watchman tonight. I’ll be relieved in a few hours’ time. I’ll stand down then. And not before,” the guard informed the marshal.
Abruptly sounds of a scuffle became audible, and just as abruptly they ceased. Drake took his head out from under his wing, peering through the dark at his door. Curiosity was beginning to get the better of him, and he wondered if he might be able to peek through the gap under the door and see what was going on. The sounds of physical conflict resumed, louder this time, and Drake guessed that Mayor Gladstone had decided it would be more expedient to push past the guard only to discover the guard was no pushover. Who was on duty tonight? Was it Billiam? Tufton? If it was noisy, musclebound Spruce Spanner, whom everyone called the Incredible Honk, there was no way Gladstone would ever get through.
“Just what is going on here?” Drake heard his nursemaid shout in her most imperious tone. The sounds of struggle immediately ended.
“Mistress Mayfeathers,” Mayor Gladstone addressed her, clearing his throat. “I have urgent business with our liege. I must be permitted entry at once.”
“Count Drake is sleeping,” the nursemaid told the mayor. “Unless your hooliganism woke him up. And even then, he is not to be disturbed. He is a growing gosling and it is past his bedtime.”
“Listen to me! There isn’t time for this!” Gladstone urged.
“I think you meant to say ‘This isn’t the time for this,’ which I wholeheartedly agree with,” Mistress Mayfeathers sniffed.
“You heard the lady, waddle off,” the guard commanded.
“Duke Arne is dead!” Mayor Gladstone blurted out. His words were followed by a stunned silence.
He who honks last…
“Wh-what?” Drake’s nursemaid eventually stammered.
“Dead! He was found early this morning! There are men coming this very moment to take Drake to the capital! He must be ready for them!” Gladstone cried.
“How?” the guard croaked.
“He’s been depressed for months. Erratic. Volatile. The stress probably got to him,” Gladstone said impatiently. “I don’t know precisely how, but I’ve heard it was suicide. Regardless, Arne had no children. Drake is now the Duke of Asarcornisen.”
Drake’s bill dropped open. He was the duke now? Just like that? It sounded absurd! He went to bed a count, and a count was all he wanted to be! And who was coming for him? What did they want? Why did they want him in the capital? His head was spinning, and for a moment Drake thought he would fall out of his nest.
“Drake is too young to be the duke! Who will be the regent?” Mistress Mayfeathers asked.
“Nottington, if I had to guess,” Gladstone replied. “At least, it’s Nottington summoning Drake to court. No doubt he wants him under his wing as soon as possible.”
“He cannot go! He’s just a gosling!” Mistress Mayfeathers insisted.
“It’s not up to you!” Gladstone bellowed, losing his patience at last. “Or you, you plucking imbecile! Get out of my way!”
The guard protested but this time failed to stop Mayor Gladstone from shoving his way in. The door to Drake’s bedchambers creaked open and torchlight spilled into the dark room. Drake stared at the geese piling in, his eyes wide.
“My liege,” Mayor Gladstone began, dipping his head respectfully. “I hope I did not wake you, but it is good you are awake. There is something important we need to discuss.”
Duke Drake gulped and rose. “Yes indeed. I need to know what to bring with me to the capital.”
