The cause of this raucous atmosphere was the Mad General. Or rather, Baron Hadjar Traves. Well, he was going to be a baron. The title hadn’t been officially granted to him yet, for only the King himself could do so. That meant that the most beloved man in the country and the most hated one would meet today.
It was Rowena’s worst administrative nightmare.
To make the situation worse, the future Baron was playing an obscene song on the stage, and the crowd of bards around him were supporting him.
Rowena motioned with her hand and the detachment of the Generals’ soldiers began to slowly move into the room. Their sudden appearance calmed the general madness down slightly. When the people saw the emblems on the warriors’ armor, the dancing, shouting, and music began to fade gradually. They slowly cut off until the Baron’s lonely melody was the only one left.
“Honorable Hadjar Traves,” Rowena had omitted the title on purpose, enjoying these few remaining moments when her rank was still higher than the former General’s.
“Milady Rowena,” Hadjar opened his eyes, finished the melody, and, getting up from his chair, handed the instrument back to the bard. He accepted it as if a god had given him the most valuable treasure in the whole world.
“The carriage is waiting for you and you haven’t even changed yet.”
Hadjar inspected his patched, plain clothes.
“I think I’m dressed very appropriately.”
Hadjar jumped off the stage and, crossing his arms behind his back, walked calmly toward the exit. He was followed by Nero and Serra. The latter, despite her friend’s stubbornness, had put on a white dress, earrings with sapphires in them, and a wreath. Nero was wearing his now famous armor. As a bit of decoration, he had put on a red cloak and an iron helmet that resembled a pot.
Not paying attention to the Generals’ soldiers, who had drawn their weapons, the trio left the tavern. At the entrance, a coach was indeed waiting for them — a gigantic monstrosity that screamed opulence, decorated with gold and amber, at least sixteen feet tall, and twice as long. It was being pulled by twelve pedigree horses.
“I have to say, that is impressive,” Nero admitted, offering his hand to Serra.
The couple went in first. After standing for a bit on the footboard, Hadjar waved to the patrons of the tavern and followed his friends inside. Rowena sat down on the velvet sofas soon after, accompanied by several soldiers.
The rest followed after the carriage as it trundled on, frightening the residents of the city.
They rode toward the gates leading to the central district. Rowena was telling them something about the laws of hospitality (in other words, she was hinting at the warriors’ barbaric nature), about the rules of decency in the Palace, how and to whom they were supposed to bow, and other such nonsense.
Hadjar didn’t listen to her. He chose to look out the window instead. At the marvelous, beautiful Palace, the entrance to which was guarded by two giant lions.
It had taken him almost sixteen years to come back.
He gripped the hilt of his sword.
Chapter 193
The sight of the guards outside the central gates brought Hadjar out of his stupor. They were Imperial legionnaires dressed in emerald-green armor. Each one of the thousand or so warriors was at the Formation level at least. They gallantly helped the wives of nobles and aristocrats descend from their fancy coaches. Some of them patrolled while others carried the standards of Lidus and Darnassus.
It looked quite civilized and peaceful, but Hadjar felt uncomfortable, as if he were in enemy territory. Even the nobles, upon seeing the green armor, would avert their eyes and try to get back to their own guards as soon as possible. That wasn’t how the rulers of a free country behaved.
After waiting in line for about half an hour, they finally drove up to the main Palace stairs. Nero came down first and, after giving the imperial soldier who’d come up to help them a mocking glance, helped Serra, and then Rowena, who was surprised by his behavior, out of their carriage.
Hadjar was left alone in the coach. He looked at the Palace. The tall castle spires pierced the night sky like sharp daggers. The black clouds were illuminated by the golden light exuded by the exquisite stained glassed windows. The wide marble staircase that the Prince and Princess had once explored together was covered with a heavy red carpet. The guards stood in a line on each side of the staircase, holding halberds. Their green cloaks swayed slightly.
Enemies were standing near Hadjar’s house. Their presence forced the heart of the former General to beat harder, and his hand squeezed his blade tighter. The night’s chill brought back the memory of the smell of his mother’s blood, her tears, and the cold embrace she held him in as she died.
Hadjar feared that if he went in, he would immediately draw his sword.
“Well, I understand your feelings, my friend, but, please, leave your hole.”
The sight of the smiling Nero pulling his red collar over his face and pushing the iron pot/helmet down to his eyebrows brought Hadjar back to his senses. His friend, like always, was able to turn any situation into a joke. Serra grumbled, dissatisfied with her companions’ appearance.
“You’re right,” Hadjar nodded.
He adjusted the sheath behind his back and stepped outside. He walked forward boldly and the ghosts of the past didn’t haunt him anymore. This wasn’t the Palace where he‘d spent his cheerful and carefree childhood. No, not at all. It was another enemy fortress that he had to conquer. No more, no less.
Climbing the stairs, Hadjar didn’t pay
