It was not long before they reached the mill that Rook had established as his base of operations. The brothers arrived in the early hours of the morning, racing through the cold as quickly as the slowest among them, Waff, could manage, approaching from the west. The usually cool morning air was turning stiflingly hot as soot rained from the sky. Cheese wished he had brought a hat or a hooded cloak and cursed himself for forgetting. This was due to the smoldering embers of the lower city ward.
Inside the giant-stricken walls, the city had burned overnight, the source of the column of smoky fire they had seen earlier. Fortunately, the walls of Fairhaven had contained the fire, preventing it from spreading to the sparse forests and fields surrounding the city. Yet, what shocked Cheese as they approached was that the singular guard atop the gatehouse who hailed them was unfamiliar. He glanced at his brothers as they slowed their trot.
The mill was a rallying point in times of war, as were all ports. It had access to the delta where the river met the sea and was thus vital in the event of an invasion. If war came, it was to be garrisoned and fortified, with three-meter-high stone walls and large gatehouses on both the eastern and western roads.
As they neared, Cheese inspected the guard and was surprised to note the faraway look on the man's face, as though he was gazing beyond them rather than at the brothers. The gate guard was an older man, which made little sense to Cheese—why would such an outsider be chosen for their defense? He looked to be about 50 years old and quite frail.
"Halt in the name of the Lord of Fairhaven!" the elderly man shouted. Cheese noted that the man displayed no visible skill and was slightly shocked to be stopped with such authority.
"Identify yourselves! Are you chased? What tidings do you bring?" The guard shouted again, pulling out a great war bow. He held it casually at the ready but did not draw, simply nocking an arrow as he surveyed the distance behind them.
"Hail, friend," shouted Cheese as he stepped forward. "Surely you know my face, but I do not know yours. Name yourself and tell me how you came to be atop our walls."
The man seemed confused by Cheese’s response. He looked at Cheese, no hint of recognition in his eyes, then turned to glance at each brother in turn.
"Three of you," the man said. "I was told to look out for three by my lord, though your face is not known to me, youngling. Name yourselves and be quick about it. By the rite of the codes of war, I am the officer on watch Bjorn the Eagle-eyed you may name me, and we will do this properly."
The man’s tone was weary, but his words carried authority. Cheese found himself instinctively summoning his axe and standing at attention. It might have seemed a comical sight—an old man barking orders at youths and making them stand straight-backed—but Cheese complied.
"I am militia man Switzler Rookson of Timberbrook, under the command of House Oakenveil. I am to deliver a report to my city's senior militia officer, Rook the Strong."
The old man nodded. "Aye, that's the right of it. You may pass, lordling. Sorry to make you stand on precedence, but I had to be sure. Your father is inside the main hall with the other officers not on watch. He will want your report."
As he spoke, the old man lowered his bow, and the creaking of the gate sounded as it opened. From behind the crenellations, several other archers leaned out to watch the brothers rush forward. Cheese glanced up at the last moment and caught the old man smiling as he briefly displayed his skill level: [Bowman 42].
"Shit," Cheese muttered under his breath as they passed through the gatehouse and trotted into the mill.
The scene inside was chaotic—a veritable tent city. The mill itself was large, but nowhere near large enough to house the influx of people who had decided to call it home. "There must be over two thousands of them," Cheese said to no one in particular as they wove between tents. In the early morning, there was little activity, but Cheese knew it was only a matter of time before the camp stirred to life.
The mill's layout was familiar, resembling the family mill in Timberbrook, which also belonged to their father. The brothers made a beeline for the main building. Along the way, Waff let out a quick laugh and said, "He called you 'lordling.' That's about right."
Cheese shrugged off the comment, focusing on the task ahead.
The main hall was a large stone structure—the only significant building within the keep walls. It served a martial purpose due to the mill's role as a lumber processing and shipping yard. Taller than the walls, it had three floors: the top floor held a kitchen and storeroom, the middle floor housed rooms for workers (or warriors in wartime), and the ground floor contained a hall and a small war room.
As they approached the double doors at the center, Cheese finally saw a familiar face—a man from the militia. The guard saluted, fist to chest, and said, "You are expected." He stepped aside and knocked on the doorway with a closed fist.
The doors opened a crack, and the three were permitted entry. As they stepped inside, their eyes were immediately drawn to the long table dominating the center of the meeting hall. It stretched nearly the length of the room, its polished surface reflecting the faint glow of the lanterns hanging above. The table seated some 25 men, with a large, intricately carved throne set behind its head. Despite its prominence, the throne stood empty, an unspoken symbol of a leader not present.
At the head of the table sat Rook, a commanding presence amidst the chaos. His broad shoulders and calm demeanor exuded confidence, though his eyes carried the weariness of a man burdened with responsibility. Around the table, other figures leaned in, their faces marked by concentration and fatigue. The room fell silent as Cheese and his brothers entered, the gathered men turning to appraise them.
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Cheese paused, taking a moment to scan the faces before him. Of the roughly 50 men assembled, he recognized only a handful—Elder Thompson, seated to Rook’s left; Ibron, their stout and steady neighbor; and a few others whose names eluded him but whose faces were familiar. The majority were strangers, a patchwork of hardened men who bore the look of survivors.
The mismatched crowd lining the walls caught Cheese’s attention next. Most of them stood, leaning against the rough-hewn stone or clustered in small groups, listening intently to the plans being discussed. Unlike the Timberbrook militia, who were relatively well-clothed in their neatly patched uniforms, these men wore the ragged remnants of Fairhaven's city guard and militia gear. Their armor and clothing showed the scars of battle—torn fabrics, dented plates, and bloodstains that had resisted cleaning.
Cheese noted the injuries among the junior leaders—slings cradling broken arms, hastily bandaged wounds, and limps that betrayed deeper hurts. The wear and tear spoke volumes. These were not men newly recruited for defense but the battered remnants of the Fairhaven city guard and militia, survivors of whatever trials had befallen the city.
The stark contrast between the people of Timberbrook and these rugged, war-torn men was impossible to ignore. Where Timberbrook's militia bore a semblance of order and preparation, these others were raw and desperate, the marks of recent combat etched into their faces.
Cheese felt the weight of the scene settle over him like a heavy cloak. Here was no ordinary gathering. This was a council of survival, a patchwork force clinging to cohesion in the face of devastation.
"Stand and deliver your report, Bladesman Switzler," Rook declared, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the hall with commanding authority. The unearned title, spoken aloud, landed heavily on Cheese's ears. It carried a weight. He stiffened instinctively, clicking his heels together. His brothers mirrored the motion, their movements stiff but earnest.
Cheese began to speak, his voice steady despite the gravity of the moment. He recounted their hunt and the terrifying sight of the giants. As he described their first encounter with the towering creatures, a voice from the gathered men broke through:
"The babe—it went north as well!"
The words carried a tremor of fear, but the speaker was silenced quickly by sharp glares and whispered reprimands. Cheese pressed on, detailing the explosion at the mill and the frantic chase through the town. His words seemed to ignite a storm of whispers among the men. This time, no one dared to hush them.
When Cheese finished, Char stepped forward. His voice, calm yet resolute, silenced the hall. "As emissary of the Goddess Yid, I swear to this man’s words."
Cheese glanced around the room, trying to piece together the undercurrents of tension. The gathered men—about fifty in total—wore expressions of exhaustion and grim resolve. None bore the attire of nobility or high office, and many had a wariness as they spoke, as if testing for any excuse to call them out. Yet Chars words rang out and those with dark looks glanced away in shame.
Rook rose slowly from his seat at the head of the long table, his presence commanding attention. "Well, there you have it," he said, his voice thick with conviction. "The giants will not press us. It is as I have said since that damned announcement woke us in the night. Do any now disagree?"
The room fell silent. His tone was venomous, daring opposition. Before anyone could muster a response, Rook drove the point home.
"You have one hour from midday to prepare. After that, we assault the city. I will have no more excuses or stalling. It has already been a day. Our scouts report that the bastards are repairing the walls, and if we hesitate any longer, we will lose our city."
Rook’s fiery declaration was met with stunned silence. Then, turning sharply, he fixed his gaze on Cheese. "Come with me," he ordered, stalking toward a side room.
Cheese followed, his brothers close behind. Elder Tompson, Ibron, and a young man with his face half-covered by a bloodied rag joined them. They entered a small chamber behind the throne—a room clearly not built for war. Its mismatched chairs and worn couch betrayed its long-abandoned martial purpose.
As the door clicked shut, the severity drained from Rook’s face. A weary smile replaced it, and he stepped forward, pulling each of his sons into a tight embrace. "My boys," he said, his voice softer now, "how glad I am."
By the fire, a large she-wolf padded over to Char. She nuzzled against his leg, and he knelt, pressing his forehead to hers in a quiet moment of communion.
The warmth of the moment was fleeting. Waff broke the silence. "What was all that, Pa? Why is everyone being so uptight? And what was that about Cheese? Callin him a Bladesman?"
Cheese nodded, echoing his brother’s confusion. The title of Bladesman was no mere courtesy—it was a rank of nobility, a recognition of deeds great enough to earn a family’s place in the annals of history. It was not something given lightly, nor did it belong to men like them. It was passed down from father to son, and only given by the king.
Rook’s smile turned sly. "Oh? Do we not, Waffen, Shield of House Oakhammer?" he teased before turning to Char. "And you, High Priest of Yid—do I need to explain?"
He shook his head, then reached into his coat, producing a gold-lettered missive. "Much has happened while you were gone," he said gravely. "And we have little time to discuss it."
Char took the letter and read aloud:
"I, Lord Ibis, send this by hawk to any loyal retainers of the kingdom, large and small. The Dukedom of Anscher has fallen. The capital held by our king and liege has fallen. The king has fallen. The four great county seats have also fallen. We are beset by a horde. I have taken to the road, but I fear I too will soon fall. All peoples are urged to Fairhaven. If you are able, secure it. If you are not, lay in wait for the prince’s arrival. Prince Aleon carries the mantle. He rode from us a day ago. Loyal men of the king, join him there."
Cheese’s stomach churned. His mind reeled at the implications. "Who... who did this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rook shrugged, his expression weary. "In every place, it was different. It was not the incursion. It followed the arrival of the Giants here. Monsters. They came as if from the earth itself after the giants left the creatures began pouring out of the ground. At first they were alone, singular creatures no taller than a boy and a deep green. They would flee if a person saw them, then they began roaming in packs and larger ones accompanied them. Then when we came in the night we were met with an explosion in the town square, and they poured out of the ground like rats in barley.
Char cut in, his tone sharp. "So we are to storm the city before they can solidify their defenses?"
Rook nodded. "Yes. Those cowards out there refuse to act. They cry for the king, claiming he’ll come. But we cannot wait. The walls must be ours before the invaders entrench themselves."
Cheese locked eyes with his father. "Will you give it up?" he asked bluntly.
Rook’s response was immediate. "Yes. If the prince arrives, I will surrender command. I am no king, son. I was never made for it. But I will not let our people fall. Someone must hold them together."
In that moment, Cheese understood. His father wasn’t seeking glory—he was building a foundation, a rallying point for their people to survive the coming storm. The title of Bladesman wasn’t for honor but necessity, a symbol to inspire hope and unity in a fractured kingdom.
Cheese smiled faintly, despite the weight of it all. "Bladesman," he murmured to himself, the word tasting strange but right.