Lykourgos XI: The Woodsroad

The Forth Day of the Eleventh Moon, 872 AD.

The Woodsroad, Southern Teleytaios, Klironomea.

Rainclouds were gathering in the skies above him. They were patchy at the moment, but as the hours rolled past they only grew to cover more of the heavens above. The winds were picking up too, the temperature dropping.

Odd, the prince thought, it seems we've had a very short autumn.

It didn't bode particularly well for the harvest, that much he knew. Nothing major at the moment, but there were likely to be a more than a few gaunt faces come spring.

Ah well, any problems that arose from that would have to be dealt with as they came.

Either way, the war needed to be over before the worst of winter set in. There was still plenty of time, and so long as there was no disaster at the capital and there was little danger of the elements taking their toll on the kingdom.

There was perhaps a month, two months, until the temperature became low enough to be dangerous.

He shivered involuntarily.

"Cold, your Grace?"

The prince turned to his right, Ilias smiling cheekily at him.

"Nothing of the sort, rascal. Nothing to worry yourself about."

He ruffled his cupbearer's hair as the smaller boy swatted at his hands ineffectually. He smiled a moment, before becoming pensive. He seemed to be trying to find the right words for a good while before gathering his thoughts. His voice was almost a whisper when he spoke, as though he were worried of speaking out of turn.

"You're thinking of how short autumn was, aren't you?"

Lykourgos raised an eyebrow. Observant of him.

"Such thoughts may have entered my mind. The temperature has dropped quite sharply in recent days."

Ilias nodded.

"I... do you think it will be bad this year?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but then thought of the question. He was hardly one to know what a 'bad' winter was, after all, he'd never be stuck in the cold, but for some reason the question had made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

Elikoidi would scoff at such superstition. Dreamwulf would call it a sixth sense. He gave a noncommittal shrug.

"I don't know. Tell me, do you remember the Sawdust Winter?"

Ilias shuddered a moment, his face becoming dark.

"All too well, your Grace. It was bad enough in the capital for the nobles while it was under siege from my understanding. But I'm not a noble. A drop or two of me might be, but that winter... the hunger didn't care about any of that. I know we call it the Sawdust Winter but truth be told we couldn't even get sawdust bread after the second month of winter siege. One of my friends, Haengen, used to smash apart every piece of wood he could find. He didn't care about the cold, didn't want to burn the wood for heat. We asked him why he was doing it one day, said he was looking for woodworms. Or woodlouse, or something, anything to eat. I watched a man snatch up a sparrow from a window and tear into it while it was still flapping it's wings. You don't exactly forget that. Ah, sorry, I'm woolgathering."

Lykourgos nodded in acknowledgement. The Sawdust Winter had been hard. He'd not known its effects, not truly, despite the fact he was leading an army in the open elements. He was a prince, with all the luxury that entailed, even on the move. Besides, the sawdust winter had occurred at the end of the Twilight Rebellion, and he'd been so warmed by rage that his blood felt as though it had actually come to boil at times. But for the people left behind by the world, those left in the cold and blight...

"Worry not, I'm always interested to hear of my friends' lives. Haengen, do you know what became of him?"

Ilias nodded.

"Cold took him halfway through the second month of the siege. We... I... there was a pot-shop on Gin-Drinker's Run. We... we told each other the stew was pork. We had to keep it down, or we'd starve."

A hard look passed across his face, and suddenly he seemed many years older than he truly was.

"It was pork. And we didn't starve."

Lykourgos nodded. He couldn't say he wasn't disgusted by what he'd heard, but he wouldn't judge someone for surviving.

Ilias' friend had already died, after all.

"Pork it was then. I hesitate to say this given what you've just told me, but I believe it may be as cold this year as it was then. No fear of starvation though; last year's harvest was bountiful indeed, and this year's may be as good even with all these men marching instead of reaping."

Ilias gave a weak nod.

"Good. Thank you, your Grace. Would you like me to fetch anything for you? I hear that Lieutenants Ingfred and Isen have been arguing, something to do with the aforementioned marching."

The prince nodded. It seemed Ilias had a talent for knowing what others were up to. Useful.

"I see. In that case please inform them I would like to speak with them here at their earliest convenience."

The young boy gave a word of assent, then briskly walked off.

Angels, it seemed he had a penchant for picking out those stuck by loss. Dreamwulf and his farm, Ilias and the cold, Elikoidi and... well, the less said about that the better.

He shook his head and smiled. Now he was the one woolgathering.

Well, he had some business to sort out with two of his Lieutenants, it would seem. Best get on with it as soon as they arrived.

----------------------------------------

"Ah, gentlemen. Be seated."

The men refused to look at each other, teeth gritted and faces tense. The prince resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They were supposed to be soldiers, not children.

"I hear there is some disagreement between the two of you?"

"He-"

"That-"

Lykourgos quite pointedly glared at them both, unamused.

"Come now. One at a time, so please you. Ingfred, if you would."

The older man nodded.

"My thanks, your Grace. The quarrel between myself and Lieutenant Isen here boils down to a simple difference in opinion on when we should march."

"Isen, is this the case?"

The younger man nodded, teeth grinding together.

"Well, in that case what are your opinions on it? I'm going to assume neither of you are suggesting we march through the night?"

Both men shook their heads.

"Of course not! A night march over such a distance..."

Isen fell silent, and Ingfred took that as his invitation to continue.

"He speaks the truth, your Grace. Our march to Harran's Folly was well organised and disciplined, but we were lucky the distance was so short and well known to us. This will not be; the stretch of the Woodsroad that takes us to the capital exists as little more than a line on a map, so ill-maintained is it that in places it disappears completely before reappearing a mile later as patches of cobbles and paved stone."

Isen nodded and Lykourgos suppressed a snort. Harran's Folly. Now that's a good name.

"With road conditions as poor as they are, the gathering rainclouds above and the darkness around, it is almost certain that any attempted night march would end in mass confusion and paralysis."

Lykourgos huffed out a breath and nodded.

"I see. Thank you for your council, gentlemen. When would you next move out?"

Isen made to speak, but the older Lieutenant cut him off.

"Two days, your Grace. It will allow the men a moment of respite as well as allowing us to take better stock of what we have, and what we've lost, in the last few weeks. Not to mention we'll get a better idea of whether those clouds 'll spill or move over."

"I do not agree."

Lykourgos and Ingfred both looked to the younger of the two Lieutenants.

"Your Grace, we need not wait too long. We might not be able to march tonight, but if we have the men get a few hours rest now they can be up before the sun to pack up the camp and march at first light. It'll give us a full day's march towards the capital. One day closer to victory."

Ingfred shook his head, but said nothing.

Lykourgos raised a hand to his chin, thinking. He knew that, realistically, the extra day of rest would be good for the men and their fighting strength, especially the levies, but the extra days march was appealing by itself.

It was a day less the enemy could prepare. Besides, the Angels knew he'd wasted enough time already.

He puffed out a sigh.

"I'll need a few hours to think on this matter. My thanks again for your honest council."

The two men nodded, and Isen spoke as the prince turned to make for his tent.

"I live to serve, your Grace."

----------------------------------------

His head was swimming for some reason. He suspected- well, if he was honest, he knew why. In the last... what, thirty hours? That seemed right. In the last thirty odd hours he'd killed three assassins, six opponents in the storm of the breach, and had held a trusted subordinate as the man's head had been shattered open.

The adrenaline was wearing off and he was tired. Oh well.

Romanos and Dreamwulf were waiting for him in his private quarters and he smiled a small smile. At least they could help him make decisions.

"Lyk?"

Ah, Romanos had said something to him.

"Hm? Sorry, my thoughts ran away from me then. Would you remind repeating what you said?"

"You are tired, your Grace."

It was not a question, but a statement.

"Very observant, Ser. I've had a busy few days. Weeks. Months, really."

Dreamwulf snorted somewhere behind him.

"Anyway, I was speaking of the plans for marching. You said there were two options?"

"Indeed. I am between setting out overmorrow or setting out tomorrow. If we set out tomorrow it will be at first light, though overmorrow wouldn't be soon after."

"First light? You don't even want to wait for sunrise?"

Lykourgos shook his head.

"As I have mentioned, I am between the ideas at the moment. Assuming that I did choose to march tomorrow, then it would be at first light, yes. It might not be exactly first light if we set out overmorrow, but still before a full sunrise."

"So if we were to set out tomorrow then the men would, in actuality, have about... ten hours to rest before we leave?"

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Lykourgos weighed the numbers in his head. He should have been able to do it in his sleep but he was damn tired.

"I think so, yes."

Dreamwulf shook his head.

"I'm going to guess it was Lieutenant Isen that put that idea forwards?"

Lykourgos nodded.

"Indeed. May I ask how you guessed? And why?"

Dreamwulf shrugged, hands raised upwards.

"Been speaking with the Lieutenants, I 'ave. Isen's a good kid, but meaning no offense to you, your Grace, he's only your age. He's young, and has much to learn."

Lykourgos ignored the unintended barb, and nodded.

"I see. Romanos, what do you make of this?"

The knight stroked his stubble with his hand. Before now his friend had always liked to keep his face clean shaven, but Lykourgos had to admit that the short stubble the knight had developed over the course of the conflict suited his face far more.

"I think Lieutenant Isen's proposition comes from a genuine wish to see us on the road to Anaria, but Dreamwulf is correct. I believe that his suggestion speaks of inexperience and emotion rather than true thoughtfulness. Still, he will learn. Your march south to Haestinghen in the Twilight Rebellion was fast, that much is true, but they were unique circumstances. We should not be risking your army to desertion and attrition thanks to a few poorly thought out suggestions given from a place of genuine good intentions."

Lykourgos nodded again.

"Thank you. If I were to select this idea..."

Romanos sighed.

"I would not recommend it. But, if you did... we would march behind you. Besides, it isn't an extremely monumental choice: it's simply a trade off between troop effectiveness and campaign length."

Lykourgos nodded. When placed as simply as that he could deal with such choices easily.

Why not let the men have another day of rest? There was two weeks of marching and a battle to look forwards to at the end of it; a fragile moment of peace was the least he could give the men who would be fighting it for him.

"We'll wait. I want the men ready to march at dawn overmorrow, but tomorrow they can rest."

Romanos nodded and stood.

"I will relay your orders to your Lieutenants, your Grace. Try to get some rest. Dreamwulf-"

The man huffed, somewhere between amused and embarrassed.

"Don't you worry, I'm not going anywhere the next few nights."

Lykourgos rolled his eyes.

"It was a one-off thing. You don't need to worry about me that much."

He tried to ignore how much easier it was to fall asleep with a friend watching over him.

----------------------------------------

The next day saw almost nothing of import happen. There was a war-council to discuss the taking of the capital, but outside of that the day was mostly clear.

The council itself had only been in meeting for about a quarter of an hour before it came to a head. The men sat around the table consisted of Lykourgos and his trusted Lieutenants, as well as Ser Romanos and Symon Symondson. The mercenary was reclining in his chair, arms behind his back, completely at ease.

He forced himself to listen to the end of Marren's suggestion. The man might have tried to distance himself from the substance in his own mind, but he was still far too fond of his invention for anyone to consider his idea plausible.

"A few hours of bombardment with carcass shot would see the city laid low before you, your Grace. Think how many lives we would save."

Ingfred's face had turned red somewhere around halfway through Marren's suggestion, but by the end he had gone an interesting shade of purple.

"Lives we could save? We'd save the lives of a few hundred of our own men undoubtedly, but at the cost of half of the city! Your Grace, we would need to capture one of the gatehouses or else storm the walls, either of which will be costly. For all the capital's defences may be lacklustre when compared to the other great cities of the Heptarchy, they will nonetheless bleed us of thousands of fighting men, but it's still better than an inferno!"

From his raised position on the small dais Lykourgos watched as Symon rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner at Lieutenant Ingfred's protests.

"Thousands of men? If you're worried about the civilians, this is what will happen; we bombard the city with stone, and hundreds will be crushed. We throw carcass shot and thousands will burn. If we assault the city ourselves?"

He gestured at the men gathered around the table.

"One of two things will happen: either we fail and our men are slaughtered at the gates like cattle afore a feast, or we succeed, and our men loot and pillage the city despite attempts to restore order."

Lykourgos looked down at Symon.

"You speak from experience?"

The man nodded tersely.

"Aye, three or four years ago. We took Stagspring from the deceased King's widow for his bastard son. Despite what you may think it wasn't my men that looted and burned, but the former King's own royal guards and the levies with us. There's no amount of discipline that'll temper wild abandon."

Ingfred's face was sour, and he shook his head incredulously.

"No amount of- listen to yourself. Discipline is the only thing that can stop a sack! Your Grace," He turned to face the prince, his voice icy and cold.

"When we march on the capital, focus your efforts on a gatehouse, and have the Armsmen make up the first wave. They've been mostly kept in reserve, and as such are almost entirely unscathed by the war so far. They're also some of the only men who can be trusted not to run rampant through the city."

Lykourgos nodded at the old soldier, before turning to glare at Symon.

"I made a promise to the people of the city that I would return as their liberator, not their executioner. I will not abide a sack."

Symon grimaced. To hold back soldiers who had watched friends and comrades fall from committing misplaced retribution was never an easy task, especially not with undisciplined masses.

That was why the Armsmen were to be key in the forthcoming battle. They would have to take the city without much support, save perhaps the knightly elements held within.

"Alright then."

Symon's voice broke the prince's trail of thought, his tone taking on a calculating but not cold edge.

"I can pick out at least a few hundred men who can be counted on not to brutalise civilians, mostly the veterans. I can probably have half the company in support if I put some of the more even-headed youths under the veterans' command."

Lykourgos smiled at him, and nodded.

"That would be most helpful, my thanks to you."

A thought came to him.

"Will you be joining the assault?"

The man went back to reclining in his chair, hands behind his head and a smug grin on his face.

"Well, I did say I'd join the assault on Ousdaal if you went in, but you didn't give me the chance. Either way, I think it's only fair I help you with this little escapade. After all, what else are you paying me for?"

Lykourgos' smile turned to a grin, and despite the last few days he found himself almost excited for the battle. This was what everything had been leading towards, all the sacrifices not just in the battles of the last few months, but those he had made in his own life to become the best ruler and leader he could be. This was what it was all leading towards.

He snapped back to, and realised the assembled men were awaiting his orders.

"We'll march tomorrow, as planned. When we reach the capital I want the Order of the Violet, the Armsmen, and the trusted half of the Starlings to force a breach at one of the city's gatehouses. We'll decide which one as we reach the final approaches to the city. When we're there have the remaining men busy themselves making storming equipment; we might not be planning to storm the walls but if we build siege ladders and battering rams they'll be forced to keep soldiers along the breadth of the wall. We can deny them a concentrated force."

The assembled men nodded or mumbled their assent. Marren raised his goblet.

"To Prince Lykourgos the Unbroken!"

The others raised their goblets and spoke the words, save Symon and Romanos.

Symon looked around incredulously, before fixing the prince with a puzzled gaze. Lykourgos just shrugged in response.

Romanos seemed almost uncomfortable with the new epithet the prince had earned, though of whatever thoughts he had he said nothing.

Well, his friend had never particularly been one for epithets.

Despite all that had happened over the last few days, the prince found that tomorrow couldn't come quick enough.

----------------------------------------

"Heave! Heave!"

Lykourgos sighed. Ten days they'd been marching. Ten days of wind and rain and mud.

The Woodsroad was in just as poor a condition as Ingfred had claimed. They had arrived at Haestinghen after only five days march, at the time it looked as if they would be at the capital in perhaps a week and a half, if the men were pressed hard enough.

Now it looked like it'd be at least another two weeks.

The rains had picked up as they'd left Haestinghen, and what was left of the poorly maintained road between Haestinghen and the capital turned to a morass of mud that sucked the boots from men's feet, broken up only by the occasional patch of slippery cobbles or small stream of water passing across what had once been the main road from Teleytaios to Owkrestos.

How did the road get this bad? When? Who let this happen?

There was a cry from behind, and he realised in an exasperated second of thought that another carriage in the baggage train had had a wheel break off into the sodden earth.

"Not the best conditions, your Grace."

He turned to the newcomer.

"No, they aren't. What would you recommend?"

Isen hummed.

"I don't rightly know, your Grace. I lack experience in these matters, as other have no doubt made you aware."

There was an edge to that last part that Lykourgos elected to leave alone.

"I see. Lieutenant Ingfred is-"

"BANDITS!"

There was a clamour from behind them, and perhaps a dozen longbowmen staggered back from the column in a daze.

"Where? I see no bandits!"

Isen's face set, his expression hard.

"With your leave your Grace, I'll speak with those men who claimed to see them. Perhaps Ingfred would be able to lead a party to comb the woods? I'll be happy to second some of my longbowmen to him, given his knowledge on these matters."

Lykourgos nodded, and poked Ilias to his left, who was watching the small-scale chaos with rapt attention.

"Ilias?"

The boy jumped slightly, quickly settling back into his role.

"Your Grace!"

Lykourgos pointed further down the line at Ingfred's thousand.

"Find Lieutenant Ingfred, and command him to take a dozen of his men and two-dozen of Lieutenant Isen's longbowmen and comb the woods. At once."

Ilias nodded, and rode down the line.

"He's a good lad, your Grace."

"Aye, he is. It took him less than a week to adapt to his role, all told. He'll do well."

The two men sat in their saddles in silence a while, before Ingfred rode up to them, Ilias in tow.

"Your Grace, given the nature of those woods I'd be happier swapping the dozen men of my thousand with another twelve from Isen's. If there are bowmen in the woods they'll cut down my armsmen with little they can do in retaliation."

Lykourgos turned to Lieutenant Isen.

"Well, Lieutenant?"

Isen smiled, seeming pleased at the praise given to his own men.

"Of course Ser, your Grace! I'll gather the best shots in the thousand and give them their orders, by your leave?"

Lykourgos nodded once, and Lieutenant Isen trotted off on his charger. He turned to look back at the skies.

Angels, this rain needs to stop soon, or else we're at risk of drowning before we reach Anaria.

----------------------------------------

It had been, by all accounts disastrous.

There had been few deaths. Only one, actually.

That wasn't the issue.

The issue was that the death had been that of Lieutenant Ingfred.

He gritted his teeth and willed himself not to beat the weasel-faced Longbowmen into a red mist.

"We couldn't find anyone, your Grace. They must have been behind the trees, and as soon as Lieutenant Ingfred turned to face us his back was riddled with arrows."

Lykourgos was incensed. Ingfred was dead. The man who had survived half-a-hundred wars stretching back to the Fourth Crusade was gone. One of the best commanders in the prince's army riddled with arrows in some backwater forest.

His jaw clenched as he forced out the words.

"You couldn't find anyone."

Lieutenant Isen's face displayed only a little less anger than the prince felt. The man had a dark glint in his eyes that spoke of malice and danger.

The prince huffed, forcing himself to breath as he glanced over at his subordinate. If Isen wasn't actually contemplating what the men's heads would look like on spikes, then he was a very good actor.

"I picked you out as the best three-dozen in the thousand. Worthy of standing at the side of such a man. Was I wrong?"

The men shuffled, uneasily. Isen turned to the prince.

"For what little it is worth, your Grace, I am sorry. Please, by your leave, allow me to take a few hundred of my thousand and a few hundred of your levied bowmen and screen the woods as we pass by them, to prevent something like this from happening again."

Lykourgos nodded, fire rising in his chest. Choler.

"Yes. Yes, and make sure this time your men do their jobs properly!"

Lieutenant Isen nodded, the dark glint still there, and moved to his men.

Isen may be a good commander, the prince thought, and his men may excel on the battlefield. But this is a blemish on his thousand that time won't wash out.

He closed his eyes as the men stalked back to their thousand, and tried to picture the body of the old man, lying in the woods.

He opened them, and spat to the side.

Good.

They didn't deserve to forget letting him die like that.

----------------------------------------

Two days later they passed through the town of Haraldia.

Here was where the former King Harald had been born, and just outside of the town his bones were still entombed in the keep that served as the headquarters of the Order of the Bloody Cross. He'd have loved to visit a place filled with so much history, but alas, duty called him to the capital.

There was something that happened in that town though.

As they'd passed through a representative of the order had rode to speak with him, flanked by ten of who might have been the most imposing and frankly terrifying people the prince had ever seen.

Lykourgos opened his mouth to greet them, but the man at the fore spoke first. He was dressed in all black leather, with a longseaxe at his side.

Ah, not an initiated knight, but rather some type of menial.

The man's voice was clipped and terse, as though he were unused to speaking.

"My name is not important, for I no longer bear one. I am here from the Order of the Bloody Cross. Word has come to us of the foul religious misconducts of your sister, and so we are here to assist you with a token of our support. I will ride as interpreter for the men behind me, who will act as your honour guard, courtesy of the Order. Good day."

And that had been that. The prince had not even had the chance to speak.

"Saints, they're scary fuckers."

He turned to acknowledge Symon and nodded. The knights of the Order of the Bloody Cross were, as the sellsword had said, scary fuckers. Their plate armour was large, and heavier than anything Lykourgos had seen outside the order. In each left hand was a longsword, every one of them a masterpiece of craftsmanship by themselves, and in the right each knight held a huge shield.

Well, to call them shields was a disservice. They were huge slabs of metal, with thorn-like teeth facing forwards around the rim. The most notable aspect of each shield was the carving of King Harald in the centre. Some showed him triumphant, sword raised high. Some showed him laid low or embattled.

Lykourgos saw one of the shields even displayed the child King in his last moments, impaled on a Sotenari pike as his crown fell from his brow and his sword from his hand.

Oh, and the men never talked.

Sure, Lykourgos had read and heard of that before. But it wasn't until you were next to them that you realised how odd the silence was. They could communicate with each other with glances and minute movements, but to anyone around them, Lykourgos included, the aura of silence that exuded from them was almost uncanny.

He supposed that was why the interpreter was with them.

"Well, I'm glad that they're on our side."

The prince nodded choppily at the mercenary.

"Aye, on that much we agree."