Arkonos

Bogdan’s Arrival

The grassy fields of the lowlands of Southern Elsweiss stretched on for Duke Bogdan and his men. Elsweiss was a rich region, verdant farmland stretched over the hills, filled with crops being harvested in preparation for the winter. Orchards filled with succulent apples dotted the way up and through the hills that he and his men marched across, bearing two banners, his own and that of the Kings. He was here under royal authority after all. His own lands, despite being pacified, were nothing compared to the farmland riches that exist in Elsweiss. Much of their wealth existed in the fisheries along the coast, and churches in the countryside. His land also had a lot of breweries, where ale and beer flowed freely. As he looked upon the castle atop the hill in the distance, he realised just how wealthy Duke Edszew was.

Duke Bogdan sat rigid in the saddle as his horse trotted effortlessly down the road, the towering fortress of Castle Goswiess looming ahead. The castle was like a grim sentinel, its thick stone walls rising from the steep hill like a fortress hewn from the very rock. The ascent to its gates was treacherous narrow switchbacks cut into the hillside, allowing defenders to rain arrows and boiling pitch upon any approaching force. The outer walls, reinforced with limestone and mortar, showed little signs of decay; they stood resolute, a testament to generations of careful fortification. Round towers flanked each corner, their parapets bristling with men-at-arms, and ballistas. The twin portcullises at the gatehouse were iron-clad, the passage between them a death trap for any intruders caught within. Sapping could be an option, but sat atop such a steep rocky hill could be an effort in futility. Goswiess was designed to endure. It would neither fall swiftly nor be starved into submission in a fortnight.
Beyond the castle walls, the village of Goswiess where the castle got its name from sat quiet, its homes modest but well-kept, with sturdy timber framing and stone hearths. As Bogdan’s forces marched through the town, he noticed little signs of life. The doors were barricaded, and the guards sat non-existent. They had to have known they were coming, and withdrawn their men to the castle. His men, restless and eager, muttered behind him, watching as he measured the walls with a calculating stare. To breach Castle Goswiess would take weeks, perhaps months. The cost in blood would be staggering. Bogdan exhaled slowly, his grip on the reins tightening. It seemed as if Edszew had already decided for him that a siege would be needed.
Bogdan was brought out of his musings by his second in command of the army, Lord Vlotzy, one of his vassals whose horse marched in step with his. He wore a suit of armor, a white horse on a blue field, his family arms clearly presented on his chest. “Are you sure that speaking to him is wise, my lord?” He asked Bogdan.

“We caught his messenger.” Bogdan replied simply. “He has no means to request relief, nor does he have the forces necessary to sally out. His only option now is to either come affirm his loyalty, and now his innocence to the Aleksi. Our rewards for dealing with a traitor will be very rich indeed. Perhaps we can get some of this Elsweissan land, and reap some tender lands of our own….but for now station some of our men in the village. A bit of…encouragement may be needed.”

With a slight bow, he retreated back to the rear of the army, and began issuing orders. As the army halted, and began to follow their sergeants as they lined up. Duke Bogdan, along with his son Mateusz, sat ready to move forward as he sent a messenger to the gates, announcing the intention of speaking to the Duke. He looked over to his son Mateusz, sat proudly in his armor. This was his first military campaign, after being wounded during a run in with bandits he was sliced in the neck. He was saved, but forever lost his voice.

The messenger arrived back, announcing that Edszew had agreed to speak. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder, and made a gesture of following and speaking. With an eager nod, his son followed as they approached the gates of the castle. Edszew’s heraldry, of a white bow and green field, with three red eagles flying in a blue strip across the top was draped down both sides of the castle gates. His son carried his own banner, A dove white dove with a sword being carried in its beak across a blue field.

Edszew himself sat atop the castle gates, arms folded as Bogdan approached. His men at arms stood along the walls, but at ease as his horse came to a halt. “Your lordship, Duke Edszew.” Duke Bogdan called out. “Under the authority of King Aleksi the first, you are hereby summoned to the capital. You are to bend the knee, and he expects you to utter your oath to your king.”

Edszew looked down at him from the battlements. “Duke Bogdan, you act upon orders that I cannot be compelled to follow. I owe no such allegiance to the King, as until all claimants are allowed to submit their claims, then there can be no King. Surely, Duke Bogdan, that as a man of noble blood, you can see that Alexi has overstretched.”

“I serve my King.” Bogdan stated firmly. “As do you. Everything you hold, including these lands and titles are held in his name. It stands to reason, that you owe the king, who is your sons cousin I should remind you, your fealty, loyalty and respect. You will come to Nowymiast and swear allegiance to the crown.”

“My allegiance is to the crown.” Edszew stated, looking to the forest behind him. “But what of the crowns allegiance to my people? Have we not bled and suffered for this land? He taxes us more than every other province. Our people are restricted in their movement and commerce. My importance to the king insofar lies in how much money I send him. Yet what does he do when my people are butchered, by the likes of you? He enforces harsh laws on me, and my vassals. We are forced to change our names, our culture and he then has the gall, the gall to rob us of our rights and money? What do I owe to that?”

Edszew then lowered his gaze from the horizon, back to Bogdan. “And what of you, does the King not send his own men? What are your orders if I opt to not attend this…this sham of a ‘coronation’.”

“My orders come from the crown directly.” Duke Bogdan stated. “And if you do not come with us to swear your fealty then I am to consider you a traitor, or participating in an act of ill conceived rebellion. Either you come to us to the capital as a free man to plead your case, or you will face siege, and I will have you face the justice of the sword.”

“I am well prepared for a siege, Duke Bogdan.” Edszew’s voice cut through the air. “Your threats do not scare me. I have enough provisions to last a year, perhaps more. I know you, I know that once I leave these walls my life is in your hands. The second these gates open, you are more likely to slaughter, than to let me leave.”

“Duke Edszew.” Bogdan began, trying to readjust his strategy. He was obviously not willing to come out on his own, so force would need to be applied. Perhaps he was anticipating that support that his messenger was supposed to get, that Duke Bogdan had intercepted. It was time to play this card. “We already found your messenger. We know that you have entice foreign invaders to help you against a rebellion against the crown. If you force a siege, I have no choice but to declare your entire family as traitors to the realm. This includes your son. The only evidence, which I have, is that you have been plotting. If you come with me to the capital, and swear your loyalty, perhaps I may lose it on the way.” It was a lie, he knew it.

A loud snort came from Edszew, that had a bit of an echo to it. “You dishonour yourself sir. If you have that letter, then I am already a dead man, and my people along with me. History has put the fate of my people upon my shoulders, I will not shirk it. I have seen your army, and the one to which I have amassed within these walls is more than enough to keep your men at bay, and for us to live comfortably for a year. How will your army fare when the winter comes, hm? We have nothing more to discuss. Either draw your sword, or begone. I have sullied myself already in talking to you, and will not further participate.”

Duke Bogdan said nothing. He had hoped that once Edszew had learned of his messenger being intercepted he would realise that he was out of options, and submit for trial. The man was obviously far more deluded than he expected. “Then we have no option. Duke Bogdan, in the name of the King, I hereby declare you traitor. Under the authority invested in me, I denounce you, and declare you traitor. Your lands, and titles are forfeit. Any of your bannermen that do not denounce your actions, will also be considered traitor, and shall suffer traitors deaths.”

“Leave, and get off my land.” Edszew gestured, flicking his wrist upward. Bogdan retreated, as Edszew watched, high upon the battlements. From his perspective, he could see that Bogdan had begun Bogdan preparing for the inevitable siege. Edszew knew his castle was well-fortified, but no stronghold was impervious to hunger, exhaustion, and pressure.

In the distance, Bogdan and his staff began issuing orders to scouts who quickly rode off into the distance, probably to observe the land, locate supply routes, and choke off Edszew’s access to provisions. His men moved into the villages and farmlands surrounding the castle, seizing grain, livestock, and stores of water. Even from here, Edszew could hear screaming, and shouting. He knew what was coming/ What couldn’t be taken would be burned, ensuring Edszew's forces had no outside support.
The rest began to establish fortified encampments, placing siege camps beyond arrow range yet close enough to monitor activity within the walls. They were already beginning to build trenches, and siege equipment would likely follow. “Father?” The voice of his son Hennecke pulled him out of his thoughts, as he snapped back to reality. “If he caught our messenger, what do we do? We do not have enough men to take on Bogdan’s forces.”

“He caught a messenger, singular.” He told his son. “If Bogdan knew of the second messenger, he would have said so, and yet he did not. The fool let more slip, by acting like he knew everything. We still have the advantage, providing that Duke Kunibert is able to ride to us. Our Bannermen are also gathering, but Bogdan still has the numbers. If Kunibert does not show up, then the battle is going to be a tight one indeed. Without Kunibert, even winning this battle could be a defeat. We are relying on whatever forces he can bring…that and the winter. We may have to sally out in the spring, or I will submit myself to the headsman.”

A stern nod from his son was all that he got in response. “Summon the Chamberlain, Alardus will have to assist us in establishing a watch and patrols. We will have to have men on the walls at all times, so rotations will have to be established, as well as rationing. If we ration our supplies now, we will run into less issues in the future. Any food that is perishable will need to be doled out first. Thankfully we have a large storage of hardtack.”

“As you say, father. I will fetch him at once.” His son affirmed, then moved past the walls. Edszew went back to staring past the walls, and onto the forest in the hills. The sun was going down, and they would likely face the first of Bogdan’s attacks or probes as early as the night. If Bogdan was smart, he would have had ladders made and hidden within the woods, and carried out at night, but Bogdan had only fought bandits for the better part of the last decade, not a well prepared garrison of defenders. He hoped then, that his letter would pay off. The siege of Castle Goswiess had begun.

[Ríki Norslundar | ᚱᛁᚴᛁ ᚿᚮᚱᛍᛚᚢᚿᛑᛆᚱ]
[N O R S L U N D]

_{Late Autumn 944 NR}

[THE KINGDOM OF THE NORTH] — [THE KINGDOM OF NORSLUND];
_{[THE BEAR RISING]}


_{”Jarl Helga, known as the Ironheart, was said to have single-handedly defended the mountain fortress during a surprise attack, her courage and strength becoming a symbol of unyielding honor.”
— From The Ironheart of Eidhølm by Yngvar Agnarsson, [245 NR]}

JÁRNVÍKBORG
_{WULFRHEIM, GRÅFJELL, Norslund — [NOON]}

_{The air above Wulfrheim burned cold. Snow flurried in defiant, wind-whipped spirals down through the great passes of Gråfjell, brushing stone and skin alike with the bite of coming winter. Járnvíkborg, the grand fortress and seat of the High King of Norslund, stood like a growling sentinel over the cragged valley. Its carved beams and slate towers were crusted with frost, banners hanging stiff above the ramparts—each bearing the ancient sigil of Clan Einherjarson: a silver bear rampant, emblazoned on a lush blue background.}

_{The training yard stood empty but for two figures—one old, one young, their silhouettes cast in gold and grey beneath a fading sun. Prince Harald wore a thick tunic of dark blue, belted with runework leather. He drew a breath through clenched teeth. His boots scuffed through the packed snow and slush of the training yard. Across from him stood Ogmund Kjotvisson, High King Magnus VII’s housecarl, lifelong friend to the royal family that many of the children affectionately call him, “Uncle Oggie”, and mentor to the prince. Ogmund was a towering figure in worn mail, his grizzled beard flecked with gray, and an old scar ran down the left side of his face. His one remaining eye was sharp as a hawk’s, watching every move of the prince with fatherly pride and the sternness born of battle and years of service. From above, the shadow of the great mountains watched in silence.}


_{A clash rang out across the yard—steel meeting steel. Harald staggered a step back, his training blade caught by Ogmund’s shield, the older warrior not yielding an inch. Harald’s breath fogged in the air, chest rising with the exertion, brows knit in both frustration and focus.
“Again,” Ogmund barked, stepping back with the rhythm of an old drummer. Harald adjusted his grip, “You hit like an old man.” They moved again. Blades clashed. Shields rang. The rhythm was old—hammer, parry, feint, reset.}

_{“And you talk like a drunk bard with no audience,” the older man shot back. Harald pressed in, trying to drive him back with a quick succession of jabs. The sound of footfalls and breath filled the quiet, broken only by the occasional grunt or hiss of pain. Ogmund’s shield slammed into Harald’s shoulder, knocking the prince aside.
“You’re fighting the shield, boy. That’s your mistake.” He stepped around him in a slow circle, the light of the fading sun catching the edge of his helm. “The shield isn’t the threat. I am.”
Harald turned, swinging low this time—too low. Ogmund caught him under the chin with the pommel of his sword. The blow wasn’t cruel, but it rang Harald’s head and sent him stumbling back a step. The prince spat blood into the snow, wiped his mouth, and laughed. “You fight like you’re trying to kill me, Uncle.”}

_{Ogmund grunted. “And if I did, the gods would thank me. You’re the future of this kingdom, boy. If you fall, we all fall with you. So yes—I’ll hit you like I mean it.”}

_{Harald’s smile faltered just a little. He ducked a broad sweep, rolled, and came up behind Ogmund’s exposed shoulder with a jab that struck true. The flat of his blade cracked against the housecarl’s mail.}

_{A pause. A breath. Ogmund stepped back and rubbed his arm.}

_{“Good lad,” he said with a grunt, cracking his neck. “You’ve stopped flailing like a fish out of water.”}

_{The older warrior gave a grunt of reluctant approval, rolling his shoulder with a metallic creak of mail. “About time you learned to make use of that footwork. Too many young lords think they can swing steel and win battles by shouting.”}

_{Harald wiped a smear of blood from his chin and flicked the remaining snow off his tunic. His breath still came fast, fogging in the crisp air.}

_{The sky was dimming now, dusk bleeding across the snowscape in hues of blue and gold. Ravens circled overhead—silent, watching, as if the gods themselves listened through their wings.}

_{Ogmund lowered his blade, eye narrowing.}

_{Harald gave a breathless grin. “Don’t sound so surprised, Uncle.”}

_{“Surprised?” Ogmund snorted. “Boy, I’ve spent half your life watching you trip over your own ego. I’m relieved is all.”}

_{The prince rolled his shoulder, wincing faintly. “You know, there are other ways to show affection. A warm meal, for example. Or not trying to bash my skull in.”}

_{“And spoil you?” Ogmund raised a brow. “You’ve got charm enough to poison a town. You don’t need praise too.”}

_{Before another word could be said, the crunch of boots on frozen stone cut across the yard.}

_{Princess Katla appeared, her silhouette framed against the slope of the stair. The last embers of the sun caught her blonde braid and the fur-lined cloak that draped over her shoulders. She moved like someone who did not need permission to be seen or heard—only room enough to command. “Good afternoon, Uncle Oggie,” she said, dipping her head with mock formality. “Still bullying my poor brother?”}

_{Ogmund turned with a grunt. “Training, not bullying. Though the line blurs at times.”}

_{Katla made her way down the steps, removing an apple from her satchel. She tossed it underhand to Harald with a practiced flick.}

_{“Thought you might want something less bitter than his insults.”}

_{Harald caught it and smirked. “You’re too kind. More than usual. Did you break something again?”}

_{She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Only someone’s nose. The steward’s nephew called me a ‘delicate flower.’”}

_{Harald nearly choked on the first bite. “And you proved him right by scenting the air with blood?”}

_{“Exactly.”}

_{Ogmund chuckled as he bent to collect his shield.}

_{“Gods help the poor fool who thinks to marry that one.”}

_{“And his kin,” Harald added. “They’ll need the mercy of every god and the patience of a mountain.”}

_{Katla smirked. “As long as he doesn’t try to ‘tame’ me, he may keep his jaw intact.”}

_{The three stood for a moment in rare, shared ease. Cold wind tugged at their cloaks, the scent of woodsmoke drifting down from the high chimneys of the keep.}

_{Harald leaned against the snow-dusted bench near the stone wall, still chewing.}

_{“What news?”}

_{Katla’s mood shifted like a drawn blade—light vanishing behind iron.}

_{“Father’s meeting with the Jarl’s emissary from Sjóheimr,” she said. “And Mother wants you at the evening table. She says you’ve been avoiding the court.”}

_{Harald exhaled slowly, his breath curling like mist. “I’ve been training.”}

_{“She thinks you’re brooding.”}

_{“I’m preparing.”}

_{“Not in her eyes,” Katla replied. “In hers, you’re still the boy who made a bard cry because he wouldn’t stop singing your exploits during supper.”}

_{Ogmund laughed aloud at that.}

_{Harald grinned faintly, though it faded quick.}

_{“What’s the Sjóheimr envoy brought with him?”}

_{Katla glanced up toward the keep. “I’ve heard it’s a message from the Jarl. Something about a request for additional funds for some internal improvements he’s making to his hold.”}

_{“And Mother wants him to see a prince, not a soldier with bruises on his jaw.”}

_{Harald ran a thumb across his cheek where Ogmund had landed a blow earlier.}

_{“Then she shouldn’t have sent me to train with a warhammer wrapped in skin.”}

_{“He volunteered,” Ogmund said dryly. “As always.”}

_{Katla looked her brother over—snow clinging to the hem of his tunic, bruises just forming along his neck and jawline.}

_{“They’ll see what they want,” she said. “But make them see what you choose.”}

_{Harald nodded slowly. “That, I can do.”}

_{From somewhere above, a horn-call echoed—a low, steady tone that reverberated down the stone and into the marrow of the keep. The gates had opened. The emissary had entered.
Katla turned on her heel. “You’ve got time to clean the blood off your face. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Then meet us in the throne hall.”}

_{She gave a glance to Ogmund. “Mother wants you there too.”}

_{“Of course she does,” Ogmund muttered. “She likes me more than her husband.”}

_{“You’re not wrong,” Katla said, already ascending the steps again.}

_{Harald watched her go, then turned to Ogmund as the old warrior began strapping his shield back into its place. He turned and made his way up the hill toward the fortress, his silhouette soon swallowed by snow and stone.}

_{Harald stood alone for a moment longer in the yard, his breath visible in the cold. The apple core lay in his hand, picked nearly clean.}

_{He looked to the ramparts.}

_{The emissary had arrived. The game would begin.}

A Band of Dogs
Late Autumn 944

Robert Crindon heard the creaking of the wood before the building came crashing down, but did not take his eyes off of the purse at his waist until he had finished securing it. At last satisfied, and hearing the jingling of freshly-acquired Kupecnian coinage as he gave the purse a slight slap, did the mercenary knight finally turn his visage up from his own prospects, and laid eyes upon the heaping, burning silhouette of the estate just ahead of him. The commotion was great, as the fire had weakened the supporting roof beam and damaged the frame, causing the structure to collapse in on itself in spectacular fashion. A burst of hot smoke shot up into the sky, shooting cinders and ash about the grounds.

It was sickly-sweet, Robert noted as he breathed. The pinewood they used in these northern lands had a good fragrance to it, but the tiles, dyed fabrics and limestone washing polluted it. He supposed then that the whole ordeal was not unlike himself, since his prospects in Kupecnia were conducted in much the same manner. These distant lands above Lake Rubinlach were strange and troubled, and in autumn the wilds were held in a calmed tranquility. Since they had arrived, Robert and his comrades wasted no time putting this place to the sword, undoubtedly shaking life back into it as they left a path of ruin in their wake.

All of this land between the rivers Voltasz and Krwistojar, as he understood it, belonged to a province called Labuda, which belonged to the Kupecnians though not without considerable contention. The moment they crossed the Voltasz, and reached the town of Krężyce near its banks, he began to understand the conflict. It reminded him of the Feterine cities and their lords when he went with the army to fight against the Odechi. They were a tumultuous, grudging people, always with ideas about who hated whom, which patricians had betrayed one another; yet were deeply proud of themselves, and boasted of their strengths as if they were peers of the empire.

Here, in Labuda, the Kupecnians struggled with a people called the Elsweissans, who owned these lands in great numbers not long ago, but were constrained and chafed by royal authority from the crown. While in Krężyce, they quartered among nobles and patricians who supported their cause, which granted Robert the opportunity to better understand their situation. In the time that it took for their grand company to be negotiated and paid for, a conspiracy had taken hold between the northern lords over a disputed inheritance of the crown. The Kupecs sided with their own, a man named Aleksi who was succeeding his father, but by some ancient right a council had to confirm the inheritance. This allowed the Elsweissan lords to dispute it, headed by a Duke Edszew, a figure Robert had only heard of so far, and with some controversy surrounding his name.

The Elsweissans viewed the Kupecs as conquerors and traitors, and saw Aleksi as nothing more than the spawn of the late tyrant, and decided to throw the entire kingdom into anarchy with their revolt. Undoubtedly, they would have no chance at that. Robert spent only two days in Krężyce—and one sheltering with a family on the outskirts—but saw quickly that the locals lacked in strength and forces to truly contend on the battlefield. Hence, a conspiracy grew, and one that he did not know well. There was a third group in Labuda, the Tysilners, which had far more considerable influence and backing.

Having come as merchants and enfeoffed lords, the Tysilners expanded beyond the confines of their own kingdom, and settled parts of Labuda and elsewhere in Kupecnia by invitation. Now they were sharing the same complaints as the Elsweissans, but had far more support. Robert’s entire being in Labuda—the hiring of the company and their long travel through the northern passage, along the coast of Tysiln—came at the cost of Lord Kunibert von Herzeboch, a Tysilner magnate with considerable interest in the strife. He figured that Lord Kunibert sought to expand his own possessions and gains, which was to his mind the only reason most noblemen acted at all.

As part of that guise, the free company’s arrival in Labuda came with some celebration. It was unusual for the veterans of the company to be welcomed, but they were reminded and instructed to play the part of liberators, and their arrival in Krężyce brought some fanfare.

The Baron Bremton, Walder Morsey, was their chief paymaster and organizer of the company. He was a figure of some renown in the imperial lands, since the baron purchased his own force during the Odechi War. He plundered and made quite a tidy sum during the fighting, and seized a number of villages and manors which he contested until the nobles paid him to release them. His reputation among the Feterine dropped considerably after, as they viewed him as little more than a brigand and cutpurse.

Robert thought he was an industrious man. He had gone into Feterina as part of the imperial summons to liberate the lands from the warmongering Odech, and had seen little reward for the miserable fighting. Meanwhile Morsey gorged himself on loot and ransoms, and grew his band from a few hundred to many thousands of yeomanry, volunteers and lords. It was difficult to argue with his performance; at the same time the baron was haggling over payment and extortions, his company was overseeing the executions of hundreds of savage horse warriors.

By the end, Morsey’s Company had risen to its greatest period of reputation, but the worst calamity to befall a mercenary was not his poor finances and spending habits, but rather what to do when the call for bloodshed ended. In those seven years, the company was diminished significantly, and Morsey spent most of his time tending to his properties; management of the company fell to its paymasters and lieutenants, who kept it barely afloat by hiring out to quarreling lords and monster-hunting.

Now, the company seemed to be animated with the breath of life, with swelling ranks of yeomanry and peasantry, knights and lords, foreigners and followers. The promise of good, consistent pay from a reputable lord, as well as the anticipation of war loot and pillaging, brought many from all walks of life into the company’s employ.

Robert’s joining was much the same. The knight shared many of the same virtues and faults as others of his stature in the company. He was a decent soldier and killer, but a spendthrift and a boaster. Gambling was a vice of many men, and he was no different. His luck had run out, he owed money, and had portioned out his fief to a point in which most of the cotters were freemen in a desperate ploy to raise money. The timing could not have been better, and the moment word spread that Morsey was opening the ranks, he took up arms and signed himself into service.

Pulling off one of his gloves, Robert reached into a pouch tied to his leather belt, pulling out a few leaves of sage to chew on. As he did, he glanced back up at the fire, watching the cinders float off in the breeze. Some of the men were still counting their haul; not far from him, two men, Tiddelm and Edgar, were laughing and talking among themselves as they wrapped up silverware and pewter in a spare blanket. Nearby was Frosty, a bearded man whose true name none of them knew, who was with the company for a few years during the slump. His breastplate was on the ground, along with his dirty gambeson, and he was fidgeting with the laces of a doublet he had pilfered from the master’s bedroom.

The rest of their band was scattered around the area, or out in the countryside. A group led by Wermund, who he trusted enough to not be foolish, departed earlier to ride out to the villages neighboring the manor and take them to task. The rest of them stayed behind to sort the loot or watch the hostages.

Looking over, he saw the three of them still being guarded by Little Bert, who looked quite displeased with being stuck watching them. Just a mother, her younger daughter and her son, whom Robert guessed around around three or four. Without a doubt it was the family of the absent lord that lived here, who was away on some matter of business. The Kupec woman couldn’t keep her mouth shut, and kept screaming and yelling in their tongue until Edgar had gotten tired of hearing it and tied a gag around her mouth. Outside of crying, the other two kept mostly quiet, and just watched on as their family home turned to ash and embers before their eyes.

Unlike the villagers Wermund left to deal with, they weren’t to be touched. Morsey made that quite clear to his subordinates before they even reached Labuda. Wealthy families and nobility were to be brought back unharmed, if possible, and brought along in their baggage train until they found buyers among the Kupecs or Tysilners. Weeks in Tysiln and three days in Krężyce meant that the soldiers had spent most of their money on food, supplies, liquor and women, and came into Kupecnia with empty purses and starving appetites. They weren’t exactly eager to be minding a bunch of country gentry when there was plenty of work to get done, but such was Morsey’s law.

This particular estate, which Robert never even bothered to learn its name, was eyed up the day before when they had just started leaving Krężyce. There was a far larger and nicer estate to the north of here that Robert had been particularly interested in, but his group lost their game of lots to Sir Stanner Kinbill, who won the right to loot there. Instead they came here, which fortunately proved to not be entirely unprofitable as the family kept a collection of jewelry, good clothing, and money. Their larder was broken open and picked clean, and the men were pretty happy about the prospects of a good meal in the evening to celebrate.

A rumbling of hooves beating the earth carried just over the sounds of the fire, prompting Robert to turn around and see the man he left as his picket, Buck, come riding up fast on his roan rouncey. He was pinning his kettle helm down to his head with one hand as he bounced up and down with the speed he was moving, and his horse came to a dragging stop as it fought for breath.

Buck pointed back behind him, beyond the farmfields that carried on as far as the horizon, where Robert had instructed him to wait at a patch of forest near to the roads in case of danger.

“Riders from the west, sir!” Buck shouted out, his voice layered in an imperial Hastaran accent that shortened his tongue and slurred his vowels.

Robert’s eyes trailed from Buck to the route he had taken, watching for a moment until he spun his head around and spat out his chewing sage.

“You can stay with the rest of the lads.” The knight said simply, unconcerned about the imminent arrivals. He took a step to the side, focusing his attention back on the rest of the men by the front of the burning manor, “Come ‘round now!” He hollered for them, though most were already looking his way.

Among those he had already noted came another three from around the side, behind birch and heath. Cuth, whom his familiars in the company seemed to refer to by all manner of by-names; Sticks, a more forgettable peasant Robert never saw, who claimed that his birth name was truly such; and Randald, who hailed from one of the eastern cities of the empire but Robert could not recall which.

It took a moment for the group to arrive, and in that time the riders that Buck had warned of were now well into view, cantering at a good speed up the road with a trail of dust just behind. It was difficult to make sense of the collection of mounted men. None of them wore much of anything recognizable; adorned with scattered varieties of armor and bearing weapons on steeds without livery, the mass moved in a two-deep formation, numbering near to fifteen or slightly more.

Near the front of the columns one of them carried a banner, depicting a black dog on a field of silver, with three silver pierced mullets aligned along the top, beaten onto a red chief.

Lord Walder Morsey, Robert thought. Not him personally—the lord was far too busy with the management of the company to ride out for such a minor thing. His sigil had grown far beyond him at this point, and took on a meaning of the entire mercenary band itself. So great was the reputation of his arms now that the company was not uncommonly known as “Houndsmen”, and the sworn-soldiers took to the name with pride and glee.

As they arrived, Robert breathed with relief to see that the gathering wasn’t headed by Sir Stanner, but rather Coddell, a ‘freeman with airs’ that held position as one of Lord Walder’s lieutenants.

He sauntered his horse to the side as Robert addressed him, looking back at his own companions for a moment, “We were expecting you.”

Coddell did not dismount, instead working his horse to the side so that he could speak agreeably with Robert. He was a man between worlds: Unlike many in the work, he was not exceedingly young and full of juvenile energy, but he did not rank among the old breed like the lord and his close confidants either. His face was clean-shaven, the only hair being tufts of black that shot out from under his nose, with a complexion full of wrinkles around his sockets that gave prominence to his dark hazel eyes. Where Robert was lean and gaunt, Coddell had a lumbering frame to him, with wide shoulders and a short neck.

“Get your men mounted up. Good that I found you so easy. Are you all here?”

Robert shook his head. “I’ve got a few others seeing to a village just east.” He said pointing towards the road they took.

“East?” Coddell mused aloud to himself, looking between his own men and the group that Robert commanded. “Aye, blessings indeed.” He muttered, then patting a sword fastened to his saddle added, “There’s a host of Kupes coming to run us out. I think they’ve gotten tired of us.”

He flashed a grin to his own, then returning to Robert continued saying, “They’re headed from the east, in fact. We should ride to your men. I intend to meet them, and you would be good help, Robert.”

Twisting around on his feet, Robert ordered his soldiers to muster up, and had Tiddelm help Little Bert tie the three captives up to his horse, choosing to send him back towards the town where their main camp was fixed. This earned some complaining from him, but there was little he could do but grumble under his breath as he mounted up and started out.

The rest quickly found their horses too, and Robert saddled up and rode up beside Coddell as they began moving.

“I’d rather take them by surprise.” He shouted over to him, loud enough to be heard over the gallop of hoofsteps.

“Is Sir Robert Crindon afraid of some fighting?” Coddell answered back.

Robert muttered a curse at the man under his breath. “No! Not at all! But I think it’s unwise to face them in the open, in their land.”

“Have you ever seen more malformed men than these, Robert? They’ve come at us so far with ragged wooly shirts and spears. They’ve got trollskin and pig-eyes, and the only thing fair about them is their hair.” Coddell remarked, some of the men nearby that could hear him speaking clamoring out in approval. “And the women!” He started, “Well… We won’t even touch them, you know.”

“Sure,” Robert began, “But trollish or not, they can still run you through with a spear. I’ve heard they have a whole royal army out east.”

“That I’ve heard too.” Coddell replied, and looked away for a second before returning his gaze. “This Aleksi? Do you know anything about him?”

Holding to speak as the column veered along the curve in the road. Robert thought back on the few days he spent in Krężyce. Plenty of the patricians had some things to say about him, and the Kupecs in general. There is a family there, the Gonhertzs, which drew most of his attention when he stayed at their estate on the third day.

“The locals say he’s a tyrant!”

“Which locals? Ours or—”

“The ones on our side.” Robert explained. “The Elsweissans. If you listen to them he’s more foul than that… that Bull King of Traveda.”

Coddell snickered. “So you say. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter to me.” He spoke, and in that instant Robert saw the look of a true mercenary in his face, one who did not care whose blood covered his gold. “So your idea, then? An ambush?”

“Do you know how many we’re going against?”

“Not really. No. I wouldn’t think many, since they’re from the local areas. Probably some of these Kupe nobles got together.”

“Then we lay in wait!” The knight suggested. “We can decide when they show if we fight or not.”

“Have it your way, Sir Robert!”

It wasn’t long before the band arrived at the town that Wermund had been dispatched to. Evidence of his work was clear before they even reached the town, with pillars of dark smoke rising into the sky. Wermund’s men were scattered around the middle of the village, having likely seen their approach for a few minutes now, and Wermund himself was nearby. Around them, and along the few footpaths of the village were the remains of villagers, cut down in the madness that Wermund inflicted upon their home as he ordered his men to loot and pillage without regard.

Though some of the men in the column might have been unnerved by the wanton display of carnage, Robert was unmoved, and trotting right beside Wermund gave him a nod before addressing him.

“You done?”

“Ach… of course, sir. Took care of it all. Not much.” Wermund said, a tone of boredom in his voice. He was a squat, wideset man, about a head shorter than Robert. “What’s all this about, eh?” He asked, gesturing with his warhammer towards the twentyish others.

Robert didn’t answer immediately. Instead the veteran knight furrowed his brow and looked deep in thought, gazing around the village and seeing the blackened cottages still sputtering smoke. An idea came to him.

“Some of the Kupecs are coming here. Might be looking for a fight. Might be from here, or sent here. Doesn’t matter.” Robert spoke with a sharpness in his voice. “We’re going to take up positions and surprise them.”

For his part, Wermund never questioned much. “There’s some trees just on the other side of the village. You can sort of see them. You could fit maybe three men there, if they were lying down.”

Coddell rode up now, tiring of the length of the conversation. “Take half your men and mine, Robert, on foot. I’ll keep the other half on horseback. We’ll run any of the bastards that flee down.”

Robert looked at him and nodded, assenting to the plan.

“You give the signal or me?” Coddell asked.

“I’ll do it.” He answered.

The plan sounded reasonable to Robert, and he quickly dismounted from his horse, shouting out the names of the men he wanted to stay with him as Coddell did the same. Wermund had two of his men, Andrec and Drutin, to go and take their spare horses down from the village into the shallow land around the farming embankments. There they would be out of sight.

Everyone else moved according to plan, and Robert sent Edgar, Sticks and one of Coddell’s men into the thicket to hide. The rest took up positions behind the structures, or against a stone wall that might have served as part of a bailiff’s office once. Randald and Frosty hung close to him, and across the open center of the town path sat Buck with a few of Coddell’s in view of them.

Time ticked by. Longer than any of them, even the most nervous, would have wanted. This was always the worst part, Robert thought. Back when he was with the Feterine, maneuvering with the Odechi was the longest part of battle. The Feterine and imperial lords, and the Odechi horsemen, seemed to enjoy the aggravating task of moving and giving and taking ground. False charges and fake repositionings before the melee even began. It wasn’t the fighting that got Robert—any man, he thought, could grow used to that—it was the delay. There was too much time to think, and wandering minds had a habit of ruining men.

The clicking of hooves heralded the call to action. The Kupec formation had arrived, and Robert could hear them sauntering into view. He checked his gear and slowly drew his blade from its scabbard, taking a series of short, shallow breaths as the trampling sound of marching men grew closer. He could just make out their voices, and without knowing their words could tell they were speaking of the village and the sight before them. He glanced behind him, to Randald and Frosty, and watched them fix bolts to their crossbows and prepare to shoot. Their weapons were already drawn and leaned against the stonewall for anticipation of melee.

At last the sound of the Kupecs grew so great and near that Robert could no longer ignore them, and looking across the open square saw the narrow eyes of Buck gazing back at him, a look of severity etched across his face.

He stepped back from the wall, brought his blade close to his body for control, and shouted as loud as his lungs would allow, “To the task!” and cut out around the side of the stonewall where he came face to face with a Kupecnian noble on horseback; glaring back at him with blue eyes through the silhouette of his visor.

Randald and Frosty came around the corner seconds after, shooting off their crossbows in rapid succession. The first quarrel struck into the armored nobleman and the second flew off behind, striking one of the foot soldiers that had just begun to spread out.

Then the madness came, as the men of the company broke into a chorus of howls and barks and descended upon the Kupecs. Robert reached the wounded nobleman in tandem with one of Coddell’s men, and the two grabbed at his legs and cut at his stirrups to unhorse him. Others came around the sides at the host, flanking the militiamen and overwhelming the retainers, and broke through the formation until each Kupec was engaged in melee.

Coddell and his horsemen arrived quickly too, and sweeping around the sides cut off the avenues of escape and fell into the melee. The battle could not last much longer, and the Houndsmen overwhelmed the lot before felling them one by one, filling the square with wounded and dying men. The dirt path became slick with blood, and moments later the call of victory was sounded with a great “hurrah!” as the last Kupecs surrendered or were struck mortal blows.

Robert and the other man had just managed to get the Kupec noble off his horse and onto the ground when he realized the futility of it. The quarrel had embedded itself in the gap between his plate, piercing into his upper thigh, and there was no hope to staunch the bleeding. Wordlessly, Robert stepped onto his swinging arm and plunged his sword into the noble’s neck.

Many in the band quickly took to looting, stripping down the dead. They compared shoes and boots, and the freemen in the company spoke with amusement while trying on gloves and belts.

A cry interrupted them. One of the men shouted that someone was injured, and a moment later another he recognized as Edgar came from the front of the village and yelled, “Sticks is hurt bad!”

Some looked away in disappointment or sadness as others continued their pilfering, but Robert and Buck went together to the copse of trees where Sticks had gone to lie in wait with the others. He was there, with one of Coddell’s and fast rejoined by Edgar, who knelt beside him and had his hands and gambeson stained with blood. A deep cut was torn into Sticks’ stomach, and blood ebbed out like ocean seafoam.

“I’ve been… been…” Sticks tried to speak, sputtering red-stained saliva from his lips. Edgar did not take his eyes away from him and pointed at the corpse of a Kupec man-at-arms not very far from them at all.

“Ah, keep your energy lad.” Buck said, kneeling down on one knee beside Edgar and placing a hand on Sticks’ knee. “You’re gonna be fine… you’ll be right.” His words were shaky, and meant very little at all.

Robert did not move from where he had stopped, and watched as Sticks’ breath slowed with each passing moment. He was in his early thirties, or somewhere close. The two of them had scarcely spoken, as they were worlds apart. Sticks had come from a village somewhere in the empire, and was not a freeman, but a runaway. It was not all too uncommon a background in the company.

It was a miserable way to die, left to bleed out as his friends and companions watched on. His skin took on a ghostly hue and the wound lessened in its rupturing. Back home he was probably a farmer, or just a cotter. For some reason Robert couldn’t help but imagine him as that, tilling the fields and threshing wheat by hand. His time in the company was short, but he probably lived more full and spirited in those short days than every year prior.

His final breath was ragged and weak, and the four men continued watching for a time in tranced silence, as if somehow hoping that he would spring back to life.

“Rest easy, brother.” Edgar said somberly, smearing blood on his gauntlets when he raised to his feet.

Robert turned and went, being no stranger to death but never enjoying the demise of a man. He returned to the square, where the men had continued their looting of the soldiers; seeing that the nobleman had died, a few of them worked to unlatch and pry off his armor, and argued among themselves who deserved what. Coddell trotted over on his courser and told them all to take a set each, and nothing more, as he forbade disagreements over plunder.

Satisfied, Coddell caught sight of Robert and rode over, clamoring down from the horse and stretching his legs. “Really rubs you raw.” He remarked, not intending a response, and looked around the square where all the killing had happened.

“Your tally?” He asked a moment after.

“One dead.” Robert answered.

“One of mine is wounded, but he’s up walking still, so there’s hope yet.” Coddell proudly added, spending a moment to loosen his steeled gloves and pull them free from his hands. He flexed his digits, saying, “Your idea worked well, Robert. Not bad, not bad at all. One or two men for this is a good trade.”

It was cold but Robert agreed. If they had met them in the field, likely a few more would have died.

Coddell otiosely kept speaking. “Lord Walder is clear with his demands. This is a—how did he put it?—’campaign of harassment’. Now the Kupes should know well enough to take a second thought before marching through these lands, I think.”

It was clear he wanted a response. “It’s a hard lesson for anyone to learn. I think they will keep trying.”

The freeman lieutenant smiled coyly, revealing that he knew something that Robert didn’t, which appeared to greatly please him. “I heard from some people that Berenger spoke to Walder.”

“That’s not uncommon.”

“Oh! So now you’re trying to be funny?” Coddell said wryly, but continued, “Don’t you want to know what about?”

“If I was meant to know about it, it would’ve been told to me already.” Robert dryly replied, taking off at a slow walk and calling for Wermund to have their horses brought back up now so they could prepare to leave. There was little reason to linger in the village now.

Coddell stayed at his side, guiding the courser beside him with its reins. “I forgot that Sir Robert is a man chiseled of stone and silk, and doesn’t partake in gossip like us lower fellows.”

“I don’t care for rumormongering, Cod.” Robert said with a sigh. “It gets folk waiting for the wrong things.”

“Then out of the gracious good nature of my heart, I will tell you regardless, and you can choose to believe it or not.” Coddell jested, then turning around for a moment to face him and stopping Robert in his stride with his outstretched hand, sharply continued, “Walder intends to sack Dąbrowice. That big town, east of here?”

“Sure, I’ve heard of it.”

“Has no walls.” Coddell accented. He was more than eager to imagine its prize. “I’ve heard you stayed with the Gonhertz family?” He asked, not waiting for an answer as he could see the truth of the matter in Robert’s expression, “Well, Lord Walder was in discussions with them at some time. They’re one of those business families, no?”

The conversation, despite Coddell’s best efforts, had turned intriguing enough for Robert to answer in full. “The Gonhertzs have their hands in cloth and trade caravans throughout Labuda. I believe the father’s influence reaches as far as that big city here I’ve heard about.”

“So it seems the Gonhertzs have entered into a scheme with Lord Walder.” Coddell remarked, surmising, “Dąbrowice would be a nice target. A good prize for us, and it gets rivals out of Gonhertz’s way. All none-the-wiser.”

“Either you’re a fool or you’re much too good at this.” Robert conceded. “What was it you did before this? Make barrels?”

Coddell chuckled. “I have a shop that coopers, aye.”

“You would have made a good lord’s seneschal. Or maybe even an emperor’s vicar.”

The freeman laughed again, and withdrew his arm as Wermund approached with the knight’s horse. “I’ll see you back at camp again sometime.” Coddell said. “You’re a strange man, Rob, but not altogether displeasing.”

Robert gave him a small nod and watched as he moved aside and remounted his horse, then turned his attention to Wermund. It was in the afternoon now, and not a bad idea at all to make camp, so he left Wermund with those instructions as he leaned onto his horse and finally took a deep breath of relief.

Here and After
Early Winter 944

It was a little after ten in the morning when Lord Walder Morsey was finally prepared to treat with his subordinates and discuss the state of his beleaguered mercenary company. He had spent most of the morning in private contemplation, with letters and messages filling his head with all manner of thoughts. A reply from Kunibert von Herzeboch was the most interesting, since the margrave was Walder’s direct benefactor. Kunibert’s letter was magnanimous; praise was heaped on Walder for orchestrating the sacking of Dąbrowice, which weakened the hold of the Kupecnian magnates in Labuda and made the situation difficult to ignore.

Walder found it puzzling. It was strange to him that the margrave would want more attention brought to himself. No doubt the Kupecnian lords would compel young Aleksi to soon act against the invasion. His previous exchanges with Kunibert stressed the importance of containing Duke Bogdan—a strong-willed Aleksi supporter—to Labuda so that he could not act against Edszew of Elsweiss. The mastermind of this whole affair, the war would not retain its popular facade if Edszew was captured or soundly defeated in battle.

Kunibert explained it as such to him during Walder’s short stay in the Ostmark before his company crossed the border. Without a doubt the margrave did not reveal all of his information to him; Walder had little reason to know all of these machinations, and he would do the same if the roles were reversed. Still, if he was able to figure out as much as he did alone, certainly Aleksi could.

Which brought him back to his original thought: Why provoke the Kupec lords so thoroughly? At the moment Edszew was so threatened that Walder’s company had to play the part of a mere obstacle. He had even heard rumors from some of the Elsweissan lords that their liege was cloistered in his hold, under siege by Bogdan’s army. It seemed foolish to force Aleksi to call his banners and send more forces into Labuda.

Unless the margrave intended this. If he anticipated the arrival of reinforcements and wanted Duke Bogdan to remain in Labuda, then there was a clear reason for it. Walder did not find Kunibert a fool; he had clearly considered this intercession for a time now. It was then clear to Walder that the margrave was looking for a fight: He wanted Duke Bogdan to remain in Labuda, and for Walder’s force to harass Labuda so thoroughly that Aleksi would have to respond. Then, and only then, would Kunibert take personal involvement in the strife and cross the river-border with his army—no doubt with the intention to decisively crush the royalist force.

It was worrisome, but Walder knew he did not have the same grasp of knowledge of Kupecnia that Kunibert and Edszew surely had. If the kingdom was truly under such duress as many of the Elsweissans claimed, then maybe Aleksi could not respond strongly; maybe his army could not wait to drag the war out into a standstill; and maybe the young king’s haste would drive him right into a battle he had no hope of winning.

Fortunate as it was, that was not Walder’s concern: His was only doing as Kunibert paid for, and for now that task was harassment.

Since Dąbrowice, and the coming of winter, the company had no choice but to shelter. Much of Labuda was unfriendly to them, and Walder had to negotiate agreements with Krężyce’s patricians and the friendly estates in the surrounding country for quartering. It was funny how quick an opinion could change just barely over a month.

Before Dąbrowice, the company was heroes and liberators coming to free the Elsweissans from their oppressors. After Dąbrowice, their naivety was tempered with the true understanding of just what they had invited into their country.

Walder’s billet was a manor estate on the edge of Krężyce, far enough away that only the tallest of rooftops rose above the horizon. The owner was a Tysilner lord by the name of Otto Lanzbrunn, who was sympathetic to the plight of the Elsweissans, but not sympathetic to the plight of Walder’s coinpurse. He had to pay for the lodgings.

Tying a wool coat about his waist that he threw on, Walder pulled the neck’s fur trim tight around him to ward off the cold as he left the apartment and made his way through the hallway. The estate was not especially large, with a wing of apartments for servants and staff, a central series of rooms that held a feasting hall and reception room, and another wing to the rear where the Lanzbrunn family resided.

His palm bumped against the interior stone, passing through the chamber of the house where some of the servants were quick at work with their daily tasks. He made his way to the parlor room he had become quite accustomed to, and entered to the sound of low conversation and the crackling embers of a hearth.

Around the fireplace sat Sir Berenger and Sir Henrich, both knights of the empire; a further distance from them nursing a cup of weak ale was the yeoman Rainway.

The knights turned their attention to Walder as he entered, and Rainway twisted around and gave a respectful nod as their lord crossed the center of the room and quickly joined them at the hearth.

“This damnable cold.” Walder muttered, massaging life back into his fingers in a vain attempt to end their dull aching.

Anywhere south of here would be far more pleasant. That was the first thought on his mind. Walder imagined how the empire was right now; frigid and gray, but with a gentle, cooling breeze. Entirely unlike this northern Kupecnia, and the blankets of endless white that covered the land.

Rainway moved over to him and handed him a cup of the same ale he was drinking, offering it silently.

Walder took it without hesitation and took a drink, mulling the lukewarm liquid around his mouth before drinking it, saying, “Is there any report this morning?”

Shaking his head, Henrich responded, “Not from me. It’s been quiet.”

Berenger took a longer time to answer. “Some of the captains I’ve met with in the yesterdays told me that their men were getting restless with the food situation.”

“Situation?” Walder probed. “Have the lords of Krężyce reneged on their deals?” It was a serious question, since provisions for this hard winter was one of the most important matters for the company. Already Walder was imagining how he would wrest more supplies from the town.

“No, sir. In fact, that’s mostly the matter.” Berenger said with a glint in his eyes, part of him being illuminated by the fire. His face was bare, but made rough from pox blisters in his youth. “Krężyce has supplied us mostly with grain—oats and barley. A lot of the company has been eating pretty good until now, so it’s not settling well with everyone.”

“What a joy life would be,” He blistered, “If that was the only thing to worry about.” He stopped long enough to take another drink before adding, “See if you can’t arrange for some better larder. Erene knows we have the coin for it now.”

Berenger assented with a nod. The room fell silent for a moment as Walder watched the fire, having finished his drink and resumed fidgeting his thumbs. His mind went back to the letter from the margrave and then the raid on Dąbrowice. Walder was present for most of it, as the entire company mustered and marched on the town. The town’s garrison was weakened, and they had yet to finish constructing walls; the burg had no way of actually resisting the mercenaries, and surrendered shortly after they arrived with banners on its horizon.

The company suffered some deaths, but it wasn’t from battle. Walder released his men for the sack, and fighting broke out between townsmen and mercenaries. Walder’s lieutenants gave out orders for the troops to force residents out, and they killed those that remained. The town was picked clean over the course of two days, the same way a fat man would pick at a roast chicken; and when the scraps weren’t even worth bothering with, Dąbrowice was torched and left to the crows.

“Margrave Kunibert gives good tidings. He’s pleased with our progress.” Walder croaked.

“Oh? That’s well.” Henrich chimed quickly.

Berenger nodded in agreement too, and it seemed that the silence was about to return when Rainway broke it with a huff.

“Just what is our progress?” Rainway asked in a sharp tone, measuring his words but not hiding his exhaustion. “We’ve been out all autumn sacking villages and—”

“Easy lad!” Berenger warned.

“—burning manors and taking prisoners. Prisoners that so far not a single person has actually wanted, but we’re expected to keep them.” Rainway continued. “Our best prize has been Dąbrowice but—”

“Watch it.” Berenger said again to no effect as Walder finally took his eyes off of the fire.

“—I don’t see how the margrave is pleased with any of our accomplishments, when as far as I can tell, we have none.”

Berenger shook his head. “You’ve done it now, lad.”

Walder held up his hand, interrupting Berenger as the knight was just beginning to stand, putting an end to their conflict. “Personally, I echo Rainway’s sentiments.” He said in his low voice, rising to his feet. “We are caught between men’s schemes, and…” He considered, adding, “Find ourselves as actors without any scriptwork.”

Folding his arms under the warm sleeves of the fur coat he was wearing, Walder stepped to the side of the fireplace. “The margrave is not forthcoming with information.” He said, leaning up against the wall and listening to the crackling of the hearth. “There’s this whole mess of ideas between these men, and I believe we have been paid to be put in the middle of it, but only a small part. If you want honesty? I’ll give it.” He looked at Rainway before saying, “Lord Kunibert sees us as nothing more than a wasp at the moment. An irritant, buzzing in the ears of this Duke Bogdan, hoping to keep him awake at night. For what purpose? I cannot say, but I have ideas. I tire of this too, Rainway, but we have made good prize so far, and Dąbrowice was more wealth than this company has seen since Feterina.”

“Dąbrowice was good.” Henrich added. The other two agreed with him.

Rainway sipped at his cup, surely trying to gain his composure and thought. “If we’re the bait, your lordship, then I don’t understand what the catch is. We cannot defeat Duke Bogdan in the field, forgive me for saying.”

His final statement was not directed at Walder, but rather Sir Bereger, who stretched an arm over the top of the chair so he could see Rainway easier. He raised his hand and sighed, shaking his head.

“I think that’s not our concern.” Walder retorted sharply. “Bogdan is after this Edszew. Edszew after this Bogdan. Where are they? East of here, or north of here; nobody ever gives the same information, and I think all of Labuda doesn’t know much more. The margrave has paid us to harry this land, and my ambitions don’t strive much higher than to make a good profit. Let Kunibert, Edszew and Bogdan have this little dance of theirs. I won’t risk the company.”

“So long as they keep fighting, there should be plenty of profit.” Sir Henrich offered aloud.

Walder nodded in agreement, pointing at Rainway as he leaned forward and handed his empty cup to him to refill. “Tell me again, how much was the total?”

“Thirteen hundred and fifty-eight pounds of silver.” Rainway answered, taking his cup and walking to the rear of the room to refill it. The words left his lips rehearsed and practiced. “That’s only the mint. We haven’t accounted for the loot, but the troops had their fill.”

Sir Berenger smiled as he turned back towards Walder. “How’s the chair you took?”

“Comfy as always.” Walder wryly answered, taking his cup back from Rainway and sipping. “Nice enough to keep with me.”

“I’m sure you’ll be taking it with you when we return home.” Henrich said.

Walder nodded. “Whenever that is. The margrave’s still paying for now. Dąbrowice was just extra. What was that number again?”

“Thirteen hundred fifty-eight.” Rainway answered. “But that’s not accounting for—”

“Not accounting for loot prizes, yes, yes.” Walder interrupted. “Either way, enough to already settle some of my debts when we return.”

“Will you send word to your wife then?” Berenger asked, causing Walder to turn towards him and chuckle. Berenger had been with the company for a time now, and Walder almost considered him a friend. He stayed at their estate in County Torund once, meeting his wife Gytha.

“I’ve considered no such thing.”

“Surely it would soothe the woman’s concerns?” Berenger kept on.

Walder scoffed. “Concerns? Sure, it would make her mighty happy. Happy enough to spend another fifty oreys on jewelry and clothing.” He said in a growling voice, continuing, “She’s a spendthrift! You think all of this is for me alone, Beren? That woman will spend me out of my own home and leave me a beggar if I don’t keep at work.”

“Just the same, I’d send a message to my wife if she was still with us.” Berenger finished, a tinge of sorrow on his face.

Rainway finally joined them at the seating, taking a chair from the side of the room and dragging it over. He was a younger man than the other three, but not by much, and Walder knew him since the two years before, when he joined the company. At times he lacked the decorum of the other good lords in his service, but Walder found he appreciated that. If only everyone could speak so plainly to one another.

“Dąbrowice wasn’t just a stroke of good luck.” Rainway muttered.

Henrich nodded along, adding, “It was with the help of our newfound friend, this Gonhertz fellow. What’s his name? Mateusz?”

“Friend?” Walder remarked boisterously. “Bastard wants nothing to do with us now. Claims he never talked to us anymore than the rest of the Elsweissans.”

He was honestly happy to be free of Mateusz. The Gonhertzs had done nothing but conspire to benefit from the moment the company arrived in Labuda. Walder met with them a handful of times, and Mateusz practically dropped information about Dąbrowice in his lap. Its walls were unfinished; only a single watchtower was functional; the guard was reduced since some of the men had to leave on levy duty in the east.

“He still gave us the information.” Henrich said.

“Yeah, only to line his own pockets.” Walder cut in.

The group could not help but look at Walder as he said this, and he knew it was because of the hypocrisy he spoke.

Walder brought a hand to the bridge of his nose and rubbed where it met his brow. “I wish only that men could act undisguised.” He rasped. “A hen is a hen and a fox is a fox. Let them be as that, and not masquerade as one another. Men like Mateusz Gonhertz live their lives longer as serpents than they do as people!”

He lifted the cup to his lips and stopped short of taking a drink before he was speaking again, “Sure, he offered the information, but only to benefit him, and now he masks himself as a concerned member of the Krężyce Council! Cries out against the bloodshed in Labuda!”

“But the margrave is happy with us?” Rainway asked, and Walder murmured as he took a drink.

“Just so.” He said. Walder thought of the letter, but decided to spare the others his theories. “He’s overjoyed that we burned Dąbrowice, since he thinks he will get Bogdan’s attention.”

Rainway looked around to the others, saying, “Snake-men or not, it sounds like we stumbled the right way.”

“And enough wealth to winter us until spring.” Berenger added.

Sir Henrich looked to think for a moment, then gave his own thoughts. “Rainway brought up a point of discussion earlier. We have taken numerous hostages. Normally they would pay their own ransoms, but we’ve beggered them, and now we’re stuck with them, as per your command.”

“An aggravating situation.” Walder said, a dryness in his voice. “At the moment, the margrave doesn’t want them. I hope to speak of it with this Edszew at some point—Kupec hostages would give weight to his bargaining power.”

It was a grim matter, what he was saying next, but Walder was no stranger to the realities of war. “If we cannot find ransom for them, or Bogdan or even Aleksi don’t treat with us at some point soon, we’ll have no choice but to execute them.”

Berenger echoed his sentiments. “They eat our food, they tie us down, and we have to keep guard on them since some have tried to flee. If it has to be done.”

“If it has to.” Henrich followed.

“I hope that by spring our affairs improve.” Walder admitted, nearly imagining that better weather would fix it alone. “The margrave might have clearer ambitions for us then. And the mustering season, of course.”

“I wouldn’t mind Skałwice next.” Berenger said, and there was greed in his eyes. “It’s near to Orłowo, and on the trade roads.”

Orłowo was much too grand a city to even bother with. Walder knew that it was the hub of life in Labuda, old and venerable, and would be far beyond their present reach. His own gluttony for riches was tempered by his hesitation to commit to any action that could cost the company dearly.

“Dąbrowice was a stroke of luck, you should all best remember it as that.” Walder gave as a chiding. “All I hear is about this royal army supposedly growing somewhere in the east, and Aleksi soon to take his crown. We will caution ourselves until we know what risks there are. For now… it is best said that we are a vanguard without an army, and must act as that.”

————————

Rarely did Buck miss Hastara—with its stretching farmfields and endless work—but days like this just about made it possible. The cold northern air stabbed at his face like ice daggers as his horse trotted along the route. He could see his own breath, forming up like mist from his lips and trailing behind.

The others seemed to be fairing the same. Edgar’s beard looked like it was frosting over, and Little Bert was covered up in furs he took from one of their past runs. Cuth and Randald were ahead of him, but judging from the frigid mist around their heads, they were no better off.

This entire idea was all Cuth’s thinking, dragging the five of them out in the early evening before the sun got too low to get supplies. That was putting it nicely. Cuth wanted something to drink, and they had subsisted off of weak ale and bad-tasting wine for a few days now. The miserable weather kept them cooped up as well, and so there was nothing to do besides drink, gamble, and jabber about whatever came to mind.

So Cuth got to talking with them, saying that he knew there was a village somewhat near to where they were staying. The locals would have known the weather, he argued, so they certainly have stashes of their own. They didn’t have anything to trade—Buck knew that wasn’t true, but nobody wanted to give anything of theirs up. Edgar was quick to reason that as protectors of the Elsweissans, they should offer it as a generous donation.

That settled it, and Cuth had little trouble convincing the others. Buck only went along because he wanted company, and hated spending his hours alone with his thoughts. Even with the awful cold, he still did not regret his choice.

It was not long before they came into view of the village, Cuth having been right all along. It was either Elsweissan or Tysilner but Buck didn’t know the difference well enough to say. It was completely quiet, and would have been eerie if not for the small plumes of smoke billowing from the roofs of limewashed houses.

Up ahead, Cuth signaled with his hand for them to form up, and Buck took to the side on his horse nearby Edgar’s as the group fell into a line. He reached down at the side of his rouncey to grab his helmet, but quickly regretted it as the biting cold was attracted to the metal. He cursed and let it go.

The five riders circled around the main road, passing a pair of homes on each side before they came to a rest. Cuth was off his horse almost immediately, and Buck noticed that a few of the previously shuttered windows had now been opened, and villagers were peeling back curtains to look at them.

“Alright! Come out! Get out here now!” Cuth yelled, and taking his mace banged it against the side of one of the houses they stopped near.

Randald and Bert joined in, hitting the butts of their polearms against another house until the door opened and an older-looking man with wavy white hair met them.

“Out! Out!” Bert yelled, and Randald grabbed the man by his elbow and pulled him away from the house.

The commotion was enough to get the attention of the village proper, and soon all sorts of people were coming from their homes to see what the noise was. Many of them were poorly dressed for the weather, having rushed out in confusion.

Buck moved his hand to his scabbard instinctively, pinning it between the belt and pommel of his shortsword. Edgar was still beside him, coughing up a storm as he cleared his throat and shook life back into himself.

“We’re looking for supplies!” Randald called out, and Cuth shot him a look before addressing the crowd.

“We’re looking for ale. Or wine. Or whiskey.”

The crowd looked at them, having little idea what he was saying while they spoke loudly among themselves.

“Wiiiine.” Cuth intoned, saying it a few more times. “Something to drink. What sodding words do you people use?” He sighed. “Ed, Randy, you two go and check the houses.” He said, and pointed through the crowd.

Edgar and Randald went off together, pushing their way through the cacophonous crowd and entering one of the homes across the street from them.

Buck watched for a moment as they left, until the older man from earlier along with some others started speaking with Cuth, though it sounded more like yelling.

“I don’t know what you’re saying.” Cuth said, letting his mace slacken by his side. The red-haired soldier looked unphased with their bickering, instead just tiding them along while the others scoured. “How about you speak a real tongue?” This seemed to have no effect on the villagers, who continued pestering and badgering him. “I don’t know what you’re saying, you stupid bastards! Quit with your jabbering.”

To his side, Buck noticed as Bert stopped by him.

“These people don’t look as rich as Churly Cuth was saying.” Bert noted, leaning over to speak quieter even though with the choruses of yelling and crying from the crowd there was little chance Cuth heard a sound from them. “This was a waste of time.”

“Yeah.” Buck said. “Probably. But he can be the one to explain that to Rob.” There was little sympathy in his voice, since Buck knew that Sir Robert had given fairly clear instructions that the men weren’t to reave or spoil the nearby area without his approval.

Bert was about to say something else when he suddenly levied the spearpoint of his weapon forward. “Back up! Get back!” He yelled, stepping forward with his polearm and warding off a few of the villagers that had gotten too comfortable with their presence.

Buck sighed and began drawing his blade, intending to help him when he heard yelling and shrieking from the rear of the crowd, and heard Randald’s voice ringing over them.

“Get your damn hands off of me you bitch!” He raged, and pushing up against the crowd with Bert helping him he could see Edgar standing there with some kind of bottle in his hand, and Randald beside him with a wool cover in his arms, pushing against a woman that was screaming a tirade at him.

“Hey!” Cuth yelled, pushing the old man onto the ground as he passed him by into the crowd. “Get back, dammit!” He pushed and forced his way against the villagers, and Buck joined in quickly alongside Bert, trying to make a channel through the crowd.

“Back it up!” Buck yelled while Bert struck the butt of his polearm against the ground. He had drawn his sword, but was careful to keep it close to his side, pushing off a younger man with his spare arm who was red in the face with anger.

“We just want supplies! Provisions!” Edgar tried yelling, but seeing that it had no effect, twisted to the side to squeeze by the doorframe and Randald. He grabbed the woman arguing with him by the shoulder and pushed her back, causing her to trip and fall down.

Almost immediately one of the men, maybe her husband or a brother, came running up and swung at Edgar, and Randald moved back and dropped the wool blanket to steady his hooked bill.

“That’s enough! Stop!” Cuth roared from behind, and Buck turned to see him try making his way to them before the crowd started pushing and screaming again.

They were pushing against Buck and Bert as well, and the two backed against each other and brandished their weapons to make the villagers think twice.

A shriek from the rear, where Buck last saw Cuth, caused the crowd to panic, and some of the villagers broke away and started running for their homes. He shoved one of the men out of the way, but still couldn’t see clearly, and turning in time watched as Edgar went to draw his own sword and the man he was struggling against reached out and grabbed his blade hilt and scabbard, making it difficult to draw the weapon.

No doubt Randald was tired of this, as he had caused it all in the first place, and Buck watched as he took a step back and took his billhook into a half-hold, striking the shaft down and catching the villager on the back with the curved blade. Edgar drew his sword right after, and swung it at one of the other peasants nearby, cutting sinew and muscle and almost severing the man’s arm as he cried out.

The crowd quickly dispersed in mass, fleeing to their homes or elsewhere, and Buck turned back to see that Cuth was now standing over a body. Cuth was silent, breathing heavily, and his mace’s head drenched in blood before he broke out, “Damn your eyes, you stupid bastard! You made me kill you.”

Randald spat on the blanket and kicked it into the snow, Edgar following fast behind. They tried the door of the next house, but it was held fast by someone inside, and Randald had little hesitation in taking his billhook and hacking at the door until the person moved back.

Buck watched on while Bert went around the side, holding the shaft of his polearm by his side. The man that Randald had cut down was not moving at all now, and then he remembered Cuth and looked at where he had gone. The old man’s house—who Edgar and Randald roused. In his absence, Buck looked over the body of the man that Cuth slew; the side of his head was caved in, and in all the lad could not have been much older than a late teen.

Cuth returned moments later from the house, cursing and muttering insults, and holding a few bottles in his arms with his mace back in its loop. He looked around then called out, “Randy! Ed! Come on!”

Edgar came out of the door and Randald moments after, the two of them holding a few more bottles, as well as bread and wrapped sausage.

“Let’s get a move on.” Buck said. “We’ve got to cut out of here.”

Quickly the group remounted their horses, but not before fixing the haul of spirits and food in their saddlebags. Cuth took off at a quick gallop, and the others’ horses took a moment to catch up to speed, trudging back through the snow and leaving the village behind.

“Are you alright, Ed?” Buck asked, riding not too far from him.

“Little barrel-head bastard punched me in the jaw!” Edgar fumed. “I would’ve cut his damn ugly head off if it wasn’t for Rand.”

Randald looked back just as Cuth began slowing down, letting their horses rest. “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Welcome?” Edgar shot back. “You caused it!”

“It’s really the woman. The fault of all women.” Randald explained, brushing off the blame.

“You took a blanket.” Buck spoke.

Randald looked back in puzzlement, “So? How’s that any different than taking their drink?”

“They’ll freeze, dumbass.” Edgar answered. “They can do without drinking.”

“And we can’t, apparently.” Buck said.

He watched as Cuth flinched in the saddle and twisted to look back, “Don’t even start with that! You agreed to come along. Don’t suddenly grow a heart now when I’ve never seen you complain before.”

Beside him, Edgar started saying, “Well, if we’re all giving our thoughts here, little-man Bert hasn’t said a thing. What’s your thinking, hmm?”

Bert had a vexed look to him that quickly faded. “I don’t care.” He mumbled loud enough for them to hear. “I just want to get beside a warm fire again.”

“That’s that, then. How do they say it?” Edgar started with a smile. “Court’s closed.”

New Vintage

Part III

The heat had been oppressive throughout the entire season. The dried, warm south wind blew strong over the shores and battled its way onto the limestone houses. It was summer... No, the first days of spring, the singing of the goldfinches, the scent of flowers, and the harvest festivals filled the city with a breath of fresh air. In those days past, the League was prosperous; its ships laden with goods sailed the seas without competition, muscling prices and conditions at any port they docked at. The council's word was to be followed without regard for the personal interests of their chairmen; the member cities were not the slithering serpents they had become today, and the fields provided good harvest after another. It was a prosperity that shone light on all men, commoners and patricians alike, a once-in-a-thousand-year bonanza that gained the League a reputation for its deep pockets and the grandeur of its merchant Houses. It was a prosperity that did not last.

Erlán still remembered it as if it were yesterday; the memories rested in his mind, and the images lived vividly in his thoughts. The morning sun filtered through the chamber's window, between the linen curtains, its yellowish rays reflecting against the polished stone walls and the vases of carnations that decorated the halls in times past. It was his seventeenth year on this earth, the only son of the renowned master of justice of Bayvinyé. Although at the time, he would have wished to be anyone else. Tomás, a young lad who had grown up with and who served in his family's house, fervently darned the final details of his attire. His long fingers and slender hands, perfect for tailoring the most beautiful garbs and dresses, his mind familiar with scissors and thread, he enjoyed an enviable knowledge of fabrics and seams that could put even the most experienced tailor to shame. He served his family his entire life, cut short by a severe fever that would take him just five years later. Erlán still remembered his sharp tongue and his penchant for gossip, which he was not above finding and spreading. It was he who confided to him about the marriage his father had arranged for him, seeking to secure descent and strengthen his position through an alliance with another patrician house. That day, everything was arranged for him to meet his future wife, whose name remained unknown to him.

"Is she pretty?" Asked young Erlán, standing on an upholstered wooden stool, wearing a cotton doublet with golden threads, a simple but beautiful embroidered chestnut Kaftan over it, a pale mustard hose with fitted calves and fine leather riding boots.

"She's gracious, from a prestigious House, and of age." Tomás replied without taking his eyes off the cloth.

"That's what they say when they can't say she's pretty."

"What does it matter if she's pretty as a goddess, tall as a tree, or pudgy like three oxen? She'll give you children and that's all that matters," Tomás replied, taking a pair of brass scissors and carefully cutting the excess thread of his work. "What is there in marriage besides a man, a woman, and their children?"

"If I didn't know you better, I'd think I was speaking to my father in disguise." Erlán sighed, hiding his despair behind a joke.

"Wise man your father, if he arranged for this union, it's for good reason and with the well-being of the House in mind."

"You mean with his well-being in mind." Erlán snorted, brushing him aside with a swipe of his hand, "If it were up to me, I wouldn't get married."

Tomás stood up, hands on his hips and a bothred look on his face, "If it were up to me, I'd own all the riches in the world, but there’s more at play than just one man's will."

Erlán made his way to the window, ruining half of the seams on his garb. He placed his hands on the windowsill and looked out at the bay. Ships were entering and leaving the port, long lines of stevedores were moving in and out of them like ants, and smoke from the chimneys hung on the roofs of the nearby houses rising beyond view. All completely oblivious to his conundrum.

He sighed. "You finally speak truth, my friend. It seems everyone's opinion has been considered over mine."

"And rightly so, you seem to be the only one who opposes the arrangement."

Erlán turned away from the window dramatically, "Do my misfortunes amuse you?"

Tomás, still standing beside the stool waiting for Erlán to return to his senses, smiled playfully. "It amuses me that you think of yourself as misfortuned. Many would kill to play the hand that fate has dealt you."

"What do I care what others yearn for? Am I not the master of my own life?" He leaned closer, his face hinting at a hidden anger.

Tomás got up face to face with him, "Who has lied so blatantly to your face, boy? Or did I not tell you the will is nothing more than a man rowing against a storm?"

"It feels as if only my skies are blackened by grey clouds."

"Cheer up, you'll be married in no time and soon get these troublesome thoughts behind."

"I doubt it. I will tell her I've no intentions of marrying her, that it's all a misunderstanding, and show her the way out."

The door swung open, followed by the icy winds that blew in the hallways of the limestone palace. His father stood in the doorway with a stern expression. Senyor Artan de Massafré was a tall, bony man of lugubrious habits and with a pallor that had increased with age. His barely coppery hair sprouted from the side of his head and quickly faded before reaching the crown, giving him a prominent forehead as well as the semblance of the landed nobility he so despised.

"Tomás, leave us alone." His voice, slow and severe, left no room for parsimony.

The young servant obeyed without question, walking head down to the door and barely bowing before retreating. Erlán remained defiant in his father's presence, trying to hide his hesitation and fear behind a facade of rebellion and determination. He barely glanced at him as he entered, but as soon as Tomás left and the door closed behind him, he turned back to the window and crossed his arms.

"You behave like a spoiled child." His father began, his words loaded with disdain and aggrieved by years of holding his tongue back, "I'll make it clear, the wedding is in a week, you're getting married, and there's no getting around it."

"How easy it is for you to say it, you're not the one getting married."

"I already did, I abided by my duty as did your grandfather, and his father before him."

"And what right does it give you to force the same fate upon me?"

Artan laughed in his face, "Have I raised a son so in love with himself? Or are you just afraid of wetting your bed on your wedding day?"

"I have no desire to get married." He said in a fretful voice, as his eyes became glassy.

"I couldn't care less for your desires. You will wedd that young woman and make sure she bears you children. I refuse to stoop to the decadent practice of welcoming a commoner into our House. You're my son, and will do as I command you to." Those were the words of the master of justice, not of his father. And as such, carried the weight of a death sentence.

He felt his throat close under a new wave of sadness, as he found no words to answer, certain no argument could ever persuade him.

"She's downstairs, waiting. Stop hiding behind servants in your ivory tower and greet her at once. You've already scorned her enough with your whims, don't humiliate her further by having to keep her waiting."

Erlán lowered his head and looked away, his unruly hair covering his face.

"And have the decency to offer her a present and apologise to her." He ordered, bumping him on the chest with a small wooden box, carved and painted with various sea creatures and other beasts. "Now." He repeated firmly.

Each step from the wide staircase felt like a new cut in his heart as he made his way to what the cruel fate had in store for him. He remembered his recurring daydreams of escaping and stowing away on one of the wide-sailed ships native to the southern kingdoms, fleeing as far away as possible, and forging his own destiny in those sun-bathed lands; A fantasy he now recognised as just that, the mistaken impulses of an inexperienced boy, desperate to break away from a world that didn't understand him. There, at the foot of the staircase, his father waited, arms crossed behind his back; alongside him another patrician, a short and round man, whom he recognised as his betrothed father; and finally, her. He could still remember her image so vividly. A young woman with jet-black hair and ivory-white skin watched him descend, her deep green eyes fixed on him. It was clear she had been crying, despite her best efforts to conceal it. She wore a dazzling mauve dress adorned with intricate white flounces and embroidery, along with a delicate headdress that kept her wavy hair tied back. Erlán had encountered many beautiful maidens and exotic women, but this girl's beauty was only on par with the alabaster faces of the city's ancient temples. In an instant, he forgot all sorrows, completely captivated by the beauty of the woman who would become his wife.

"Alright, let's get the formalities out of the way, Artan."

He grunted and nodded in agreement. "My son is young and handsome, sole heir to my good name, a desired bachelor, no doubt about it."

"No doubt indeed. My daughter... what can I say that you haven't already seen? She's as soft as silk, never speaks unless asked to, is well-versed in the tongues and etiquette of the great realms, and shares her mother's acute ear for music."

"Very well. What about her virtue?"

"It goes without saying. She knows no man; her honour is as pure as a white sheet set in the sun."

"It's settled then. May Fortuna bless your House."

"May Fortuna bless yours."

As they were putting the final touches on the agreement, the young woman gave him a tender look followed by a slight smile that melted him to the bone. Stammering through his nervousness and embarrassment, he tried to introduce himself.

"Pardon me, but I haven't had the chance to hear your name. Would you honour me with it?"

"Talía, Senyor." She said in a honeyed voice.

"That's one beautiful name. I-"

"I know it well. Yours and that of your House."

Erlán was left speechless, entranced by Talía's hopeful gaze and serene demeanour; The silence that followed her words left him mumbling something incomprehensible before he found his way back onto his line of thought, but even then, he managed only to nod.

"Please accept this gift as a token of my devotion and as an apology for my foolishness." Erlán half knelt and handed her the box with one hand. She took it and gently opened it. Her eyes sparkled with emotion as she revealed a fine brass necklace with exceptionally white pearl beads.

"I'm very grateful, Senyor. I’ll treasure it always." Talía curtsied gracefully.

"Allow me-" Erlán stood up and came within a palm's reach, taking the necklace from her hands, gently placing it over her shoulders and around her neck before fastening it. She stared at him throughout, her siren eyes making him quiver as his fingers barely brushed her pale skin.
_{__________________________________}

A soft knock drew Erlán's attention back from his recollections onto his office door and the cold breeze of the winter days. A lifetime of daydreaming had taught him to make sense of what occurred around him almost instantly, even if his senses did not allow it. He set aside the scale, rolled up the parchment paper, rested his quill in a pot of ink, and gazed upon the brass necklace one last time before placing it inside his desk drawer. The time had taken its toll on it, the shining brass had become greenish from years of neglect but the pearls remained as white as the first day. "Come in," He said without raising his eyes, certain of who was on the other side.

Awen carefully opened the door and entered without saying a word, as was his custom. His boots, still muddy from his return from the inland vineyards, quelled as he stepped into the room. The pruning season had begun, and all over Arverynn, waves of peasants moved into the fields to help suffice the enormous amount of labour the task required. It wasn't uncoomon for the sudden increase in population to cause some rowdiness on the townfolk, theft, cattle rustling and other petty crimes made the locals uneasy and grow resentful of the labourers, wich in turn did the same. The wealthy enough landowners had become used to dispatching flocks of retainers to serve as custodians and mediators between both angry mobs. That was his duty in the House's vineyards, to keep the peace and serve as the eyes and ears of his father.

Born to unknown parents beyond the sea and welcomed into the family as a servant, the red-haired Awen grew up alongside his Senyore's blood sons, receiving equal treatment to them. He learned to read and write, to wield a sword and fight with a pike, to ride a horse, and sail a ship. He had asked for permission from his Senyore to enrol him in the college of Bayvinyé, but he refused his request, urging him to abandon such ambitions, arguing there was nothing he could learn within those walls. In his refusal, however, Erlán allowed him to accompany him in his official duties, recognising his eagerness. From then on, and especially with Maurice's lack of will, Awen had become his Senyor's right-hand man. The passage of time had turned him into a staunch and upright man, with an unwavering allegiance to his House and no other motivation than to please and serve to the best of his ability.

"Sit," Erlan instructed, pointing to the exotic wooden chairs in front of his desk. He obeyed and sat in the one closest to his father. "You've been avoiding your brother; you haven't paid him a proper welcome with honours or dedicated a feast to his return, you haven't even spoken to him." He cut through without mincing words.

"I've had my hands full, father." Awen calmly explained, "I haven't found the occasion to greet my brother, although if a feast is in order, then so be it. I'll arrange the details."

Erlán gave him a withering look and settled into his chair.

"You speak of your brother as if he were a stranger, alien to our lives and to be avoided at all costs. I care little for the feasts; I want to know what makes you act so distant."

Awen frowned, even in his unexpected act of rebellion, his father's words hurt him like stabs in his chest.

"It's unfair..." He began, speaking under his breath only to gradually raise his voice, "He's brought you nothing but shame. For twenty-four years, he has done nothing but bring disgrace and dishonour to our good name, leaping from brothel to brothel, duelling with drunkards and beggars, squandering our fortune, and you allowed him to. Now, he returns with empty promises, and you entrust him with Castín over me? I can't say I understand you, father."

Erlán sighed, exhausted; he'd feared this was the reason behind his son's absences. "I always knew Maurice would be the most troublesome of my children, even before Castín was born. From a young age, it was evident he had an innate affinity for squandering and profligacy, that only now seems to have righted itself, blessed be Fortuna. But even his sudden change of heart is less surprising than the words I hear coming out of your mouth. Maurice is my son, and I have always judged him accordingly to his conduct. Some evils cannot be washed away with punishment and penance; they are to be healed through love, encouragement, and perseverance. It's true, he has done nothing but bring us shame, but he's our blood still, and he needs our guidance. Even more so now, that he seems determined to straighten himself."

"You're toying with Castín's future as if he weren't your own flesh and blood. You think Maurice is fit to be his guardian?"

Erlán stood up and began to walk, his long gray robes falling into place across his gaunt figure. "I didn't choose him for his virtues as a tutor; I only hope he grasps the importance of his responsibilities, and it instils some common sense into him. If brotherly love doesn't help him develop the convictions he never had, nothing will."

"He has scorned every opportunity to become a respected member of this House you've given him; he has spat in your face more times than I remember. He does not deserve your compassion." Awen spouted, tired of his father's forgiveness of Maurice's repeated misconduct.

"He's my son. I'll grant him every opportunity to prove he's truly determined to abide by his duties as a de Massafré. And I'd do the same for you."

Awen remained silent, biting his tongue at his father's sermon.

"Besides, soon you won't have enough time to dedicate to young Castín's many needs." Before his son could intervene, he continued, "I wrote a letter to Senyor Ricain de Bartra, Mayor of Molterba, one of the last honourable members of the Council... Inviting him and her daughters to celebrate our renewed alliance, now, strengthed by ties of marriage. You're right, Awen, I've been too lenient. Wielding a sword, overseeing the docks, managing our estate are all valuable skills, but are not what makes us de Massafré. It's time you and your brothers learn the real sacrifices that come with our name."