5

Duskan of Kaelborth stood at the road’s edge, intent on the procession. Trains of horsemen and spearmen had been bleeding out through the southern gatehouse since sunrise, each with a long ashen spear slanted over their shoulder or swords tapping on their thighs, their mails and helmets glinting under the gray sunlight, gray as the stone of Olmant Castle. The The Olmant Plains were now flooded with a motley of banners of silver, jet, white, blue, and red. And so we march again, he thought with pursed lips.

Duskan wore no mail coat to relieve the weight, but a simple leather jerkin and a silken undershirt in pair with new thick leather breeches that had not been enough for the morning cold. The day had dawned windy and opaque, but now, as that the sun almost reached its midpoint and the skies cleared, the layers of clothing began to stick to the sweat underneath. As he shifted his weight from his wounded leg, he wondered if Elmar, his squire, had finished readying their horses.

A few minutes went by when he spotted the young lord astride his rust-colored palfrey a little further down the line. He went hither and thither, bellowing commands and instructions with an excitement and motivation Duskan had never seen in him before. Duskan smiled to himself and, with his full helm in the crook of his arm, limped to where his lord had halted.

“My lord.” Dsukan greeted as he approached. Hrolvar Langarde did not hear him, as he kept his attention fixed on his men. Duskan cleared his throat and tried louder. “My lord.”

This Time Hrolvar Langarde gave a small start and turned. He towered over Duskan with a straight back, his hands tight on the palfrey’s reins. Under his cape glinted the crossguard of a longsword, smoke-gray and with an onyx embedded in each quillon and a bigger one in the pommel.

“Ah, Sir Duskan. Greetings, friend,” he said with a nod. His outfit highlighted the intensity of his blue Langarde eyes. Hrolvar was a tall and lithe man for his age. His onyx-dark hair draped his shoulders and framed a fine sharp face. On his gray jerkin, atop his heart, was a pin wrought in the shape of the six silver swords of Langarde. Even with just a ten-and-eight years, Hrolvar sported a presence and authority seldom seen in a man even a score older. “How is the leg?”

“It is mending well, my lord. It burns just when I walk, that is all.”

Hrolvar smiled and stretched his back with the grace of a waking cat.

“And we all know a knight on foot is a rare sight.” He paused and examined the pouring host once more. “Still, a week is no time for a wound to mend fully. Are your quite sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Aye, my lord.” Replied Duskan, though each step was a waking nightmare. One of Manthyr’s men had had thrown one last stroke as he lay on the ground as he held in his guts with the other hand. Duskan had to give the soldier some credit for that, though he finished the job with a stroke to the head. The soldier had struck a little below the knee. The axe was cheap steel and worn dull from battle, and Duskan wore tall boots and thick jerkins that day. Had it not been for that he would be a one-footed knight, if there was something of the like. What was a knight if he could not fight nor mount, anyway? The wound was far from festering and was clean and well taken care of by the castle’s doctor, but the cleave had reached the bone, and felt as if broken.

Hrolvar studied him. Sometimes he appeared much older than what he truly was. He was the living portrayal of his Lord Father, Ryvian Langarde. But for the eyes. Ryvian’s were dark brown, weren’t they?.

The young lord sighed and combed his dark hair with his fingers. “Be it as you wish, sir. Just don’t you say I gave you not a chance to think better.” He jumped off his horse with a swift move and handed the reins to a passing groom. “Please, see him to the stables. Make sure he has enough straw and water,” he told him. The groom nodded and hurried off pulling the horse, disappearing somewhere inside the gatehouse. The lord turned to Duskan. “Will you walk with me, sir?”

Duskan nodded, but even still he dreaded those words. They walked for a few minutes engulfed by the bedlam of carts, horses and men mustering in rows along the Eastmark Road and the Truvyan, readying for the march south. Hrolvar kept an eye on the host as they moved, but his mind’s eye was somewhere beyond.

“I…” Duskan choked on the word, cleared his throat. “I am sorry for your horse, my lord. It was a very fine stallion.”

Hrolvar smiled gently, not looking at him. He let a few heartbeats pass and said, “Indeed, he was. It will be hard to find another like him. Even if I did, it will not be the same. I was ten when I saw him foal, and my father gave him to me in my next summer’s day. This was his first true battle, as it was mine…” Duskan kept silent, words had never been a thing he was deft in. He knew all this, and all he did was to stick a finger in a fresh wound. Ryvian Langarde had been eight years dead, and that horse was the only thing he left his son, other than a title. Hrolvar sighed. “I sure miss him, but inside I knew well this could happen, and l brought him with me anyways.”

“War is none’s fault, my lord.” Duskan said.

Hrolvar raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Is it not, now? If a knight gropes with a lady’s parts and the lady’s lord sneaks upon them, what then?”

“The lord has all the right to punish the knight as he sees fit.”

“Aye, but what if the knight is pledged to another lord? What then?”

“The offended lord can demand justice from the other lord.” Duskan was puzzled by what Hrolvar wanted to achieve.

Hrolvar Langarde bowed his head and exhaled a small laugh, resting a hand on his sword’s pommel and distractedly rubbed it with his thumb. Even seven years younger, he stood half a head taller than Duskan. “Indeed. But what if the lord denies it? As simple as it can be, a war can start because the knight could not keep it in his breeches. That and the stubbornness of a lord. There is always someone to blame for a war. The ones who start it and those who play along. Just as this Manthyr who wanted the kingdom for himself, and me who goes to fight him and bring thousands of men who just want bread to eat and wine to drink. In a way you are right, my friend. The wrong ones are those who pay the price, but war is always someone else’s fault.” They moved to a side, letting pass a row of horses, their riders bowing their helmeted heads as greeting. Hrolvar returned the gesture.

Even seven years younger and yet he is thrice as wise than I. Duskan thought ashamed, but with a speckle of pride in him as well.

When Duskan was just a squire, his master Sir Arvellt of Halkmarth brought him to Revenfall and pledged loyalty to Ryvian Langarde, the previous count. Hrolvar was but a youth of no more than six. Years later, In their spare time the small count would steal with Duskan to the woods near the castle and train the sword, bow and arrow and spear. By the time Duskan was knighted, he and Hrolvar had grown as brothers, and gave no second thought in giving his fealty to his friend when Ryvian Langarde fell in battle.

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They found themselves walking the sloped banks of the Truvyan, with mud almost to their ankles. The time of day, devoid of flies or any other vexing insect, made it quite pleasant. But the heat and dampness in the air kept rising. Duskan had had a hard time getting used to the southern weather, so hot in days and cold in nights. Even when clouds roamed the skies the shadows made nothing to ally such warm feeling all over. Large plains and small forests, and mountains that compared to the ones in the north would be no more than squat mounds made a poor sight. He missed the cliffs of the north and the dense forests, the snow and clouds and mists. Cold mists, not a haze of vapor that boiled the skin.

Hrolvar bent and picked a flat stone. He threw it angled with a swift wrist move and in bounced three times on the water’s surface, splashing and sending ripples each time before it sunk. Hrolvar bent once more and did it all over again. This time there were five splashes.

“How is young Elmar doing?” He asked as he picked a third.

Duskan pounded the question for a few seconds. Elmar was an Armantide from Garrenport, the youngest son of Earl Marken. A good boy, but sometimes he let his noble side show more than what it was best for him. He was distracted at times, but mostly too adamant and proud to follow a lowborn knight’s instructions. However, most of all children the age of ten-and-three were stubborn and proud.

“He is doing as any other youth would,” Duskan said. “He likes to practice the sword the most. But he loses his temper at times when I spank him back.”

Hrolvar laughed silently.

“Losing one’s temper can be dangerous, especially with sword in hand.”

“I know, my lord. That’s what I’m trying to teach him,” Duskan smiled slyly. “Or at least letting him learn it on his own.”

The sky began to clear during the sun’s slow descent. In the west the jagged line of the Arrion Peaks ran hazy and dark far to the south, and the Olmant plains lay before them as a green screen spotted with thickets and groves. Carts were readied, soldiers arrayed, and horses neighed and pawed. Somewhere a horn rose and the army stirred, trumpets followed. Duskan and Hrolvar made their way to the gatehouse in time to see the king come out with his retinue.

The king, Dasmond Arnor was a lad of nine-and-ten, and a few fingers shorter that Duskan. His face was freshly shaved, but his eyes were downcast and pensive. Tired, as of someone who has lived many years in just a few months. A gust of wind rose and his cape waved behind him, dark blue as the ocean. Beneath his cuirass shone in many hues, and engraved in the chest were two bows with notched arrows, crossed and pointing to a shoulder each.

Above the retinue flapped the gray mountains and river on and orange orange field of Ecklehart; the six silver swords of Langarde on a black with silver rims; the peacock of Galdwein on a mosaic of gold and white, and leading was the dark archer of Arnor, pointing the arrow to a cobalt sky. Beside their respective bannersman rode Ormont Ecklehart, Kelver Galdwein, and Hordigan Langarde, Earl Ryvian’s brother and Hrolvar’s uncle.

Hordigan Langarde was the only living son of Hrovan from Abedorn’s Keep, as well as the youngest of three. Ryvian had been died in battle in the to liberate the Abedorn Plains from the Kayfelles, and Lythara died no more than two years after by an mysterious fever. Hordigan was left alone, instructing and taking care of his elder brother’s son until the small lord was old enough to take Revenfall. Hordigan was a stout and sinewy man, and wore a face that could have easily been marble-sculpted. His dark hair was tied in a long braid that hung over his back and shone under the sun with a mysterious blue hue that showed no sign of aging, even though he had amounted five-and-forty years of age. To a side rode Kelver Galdwein who whispered him something that made him bend upwards in a bellow of laughter, showing a row of white teeth beneath a dark and shaggy beard.

Hrolvar dropped to a knee and tapped Duskan on a thigh with the back of his hand, urging him to do as well.

“Your Highness,” Hrolvar greeted when the king and his men were on them.

The king pulled the reins to a halt.

“On your feet, Lord Hrolvar. No need of formalities. Not yet,” the young lord rose, but Duskan remained kneeling. “I see you have arrayed the troops, and in a very good time.”

“I tell you, Your Highness,” Hordigan drew his horse nearer. “The boy has talent, the victory on the plains was no mere luck.”

Hrolvar smiled with feigned modesty. “Lord Uncle, I must repeat. The victory had not been possible were it not for Count Galdwein and his good timing. All I did was being unhorsed by a woman.”

“Even a youth can unhorse a man if he aimed his sword to the horse’s legs,” Hordigan Langarde replied. “A craven blow.”

“Your uncle is right, son.” It was Galdwein who spoke. His armor shone golden under a cape as white as his well trimmed hair. “Even if we were the killing blow you were the one who sought for the sword and planned the stroke. I met your father once, a man of great stature… He would be proud.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he bowed his head. “Thank you, uncle. I shall not disappoint in what is to come.”

The king spurred his horse past Duskan and Hrolvar. “I trust you will not, Lord Hrolvar. We march within the hour,” he said and rode on.

Duskan rose to his feet when the king and nobles were gone.

“I must go to see how Elmar is doing,” he said.

“Of course, friend. Of course.” Hrolvar said absentmindedly with his hands on his back. “I shall meet you soon, then.”

Duskan bowed his head and made way inside the gatehouse.

The castle, earlier so alive with the din of voices and clanging of carts full of arms and armor, the steps of mailed soldiers and hooves on stone, now felt hollow and empty. The maids and pages were all perched on the battlements in awe of the large army mustered behind the walls.

By the time Duskan reached the stables his leg throbbed and burned. The stables were nothing more than a straw-thatched awning under a staircase that ran along the inner side of the one of the inner baileys. Excrement and straw were scattered all over the ground. Stomp and Leaper drank from a trough that was made out of a single bole. Duskan found Elmar between them stooping over the trough and playing with the water’s ripples. He swiftly moved one hand from one side to the other. The boy did not hear Duskan approach.

“Are the horses ready?” Duskan asked loudly.

Elmar startled and jumped as if he would reach the wooden beams.

“No, no, no!” Elmar said and returned to whatever his duties were with the water, frantically inspecting the surface. “Ah, there you are!” He exclaimed. He reached to the other side of the trough with cupped hands, passing one of the horse’s heads.

“What are you doing?” Duskan asked as Elmar turned.

“You almost made me lose him, sir,” the boy reproached him, holding something in the hollow of his palms. He was slender and small for his age, and had a freckled face pretty as a girl’s, auburn hair and brown eyes with speckles of green.

“Lose him?” Duskan raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Elmar said. “Him.” He opened his palms a little so the knight could see what he meant. A tiny head peeped out from his fingers. “A frog, sir. I found him in one of the puddles by the postern.”

“So you have been frog-hunting instead of doing what I told you to?”

“No,” the boy said somewhat indifferent. “I got the horses ready. Leaper has your mail and arms, and Stomp carries food and bedrolls.” He let the small frog climb to the back of his hand. The animal had a maimed front foot. “I got dry meat from the kitchen Ermin even gave me, two wheels of cheese and a peg of wine. Your armor is in that dray over there, by the well.” He signaled. “I even got a dray mule to pull it. I had a little time for myself left.”

Duskan examined all what the boy told him. Everything was meticulously tied and in place. The mule was old, but stout and well fed. The cart was nothing ostentatious but seemed as it could get the work done. It had no cracked spokes and the steel rim was freshly made.

“Where did you get all this?” Duskan asked.

“Lord Hordigan gave them to us,” Elmar said. “I like him. He treats me well. May I bring him with me, sir?” The boy suddenly changed the subject.

“The frog? No, Elmar. It would be best for you to leave it where you found it.”

“But…”

“We can’t bring him with us. There is no place for a frog in where we are going.”

“But I want to bring it!” The boy stumped one of his leather boots on the straw-covered dirt. “I want to bring it and I will!

“You are not bringing it.” This was turning into another clash of prides. “The animal will die if you bring it. He has a home here, and you will take that from him, and he will die. Is that what you want?”

The boy suddenly calmed down and would not look at him in the eye. “No…” he said almost silent, “I don’t want him to die… I…”

“You will take him to where you found it. And you will do it now. We must go.”

The boy reluctantly turned and ran with cupped hands. Duskan could hear mumbled curses as the boy left. The gods help me… he thought. May the gods help us…

He sat on the edge of the trough and petted Stomp on the muzzle. The brown destrier snorted.

“I know, friend…” Duskan whispered. I know…