ALLARD

Allard sighed. The rain fell heavy on the tents and standards that stretch across the field. Horses sheltered beneath trees, squires ran across muddy paths, and the faint glow of light seeped out of the camp to the dark clouds above. Everything was set up in such a rush it wouldn’t shock Allard if it all washed away. In the distance, a metal cage stood atop the hill, golden guards around it.

Oh brother, the position you have put me in. He stuffed the letter he was wringing into his pocket and returned to the argument behind him.

“We have always dealt with our own!” shouted Locke Gallen. “From now till the Last Dusk I plan on keeping it that way.” There were six of them in that room but Locke was undoubtedly going to be the loudest.

He was two decades Allard’s senior with most of his hair migrated to his beard Lord Gallen had served his father, Evander Astarre, before him. Even then Allard knew him to be a stubborn man. Lord Locke Gallen of Heartstone was one of Allard’s strongest bannerman. He ruled over the Craggymen, a harsh people who lived amongst the unforgiving cliffs and stone of the Foreland’s southern shore.

Still, when Allard’s message was sent in the middle of the night Lord Gallen was the largest house to join their company.

“We must remember the Lord’s position.” Roost Nickle pointed out. “He is Seeker of Justice; he has been the Queen’s right hand for most of a decade.”

“It’s not what he is, it’s who he is.” declared Locke “He’s a Foreman. He’s born from our lands, he’ll die on our lands.”

Allard circled his way back to the top of the table. The two men clashing were of different stock but had a seat all the same.

Roost was the fourth son of a baker. A good family, with too many mouths to feed. He joined the guard at Vanguard and served under three Master of Arms before one spotted his potential. He served the family with distinction. He knew no one better for his role.

“No one said Lord Leondre has to die.” countered Roost.

From his seat at the corner of the table the tanned Flann Blade shot a glance towards the two arguing while he quietly observed. Captain Blade had come to the city a year ago as Vanguard’s newest and youngest Captain of the Crown Crusaders, the crown’s personal guard presence throughout the realm. Since then he and Allard have spent little time together. Even now all he could see was a man in unscratched gold armour remaining too silent for his liking.

“Aye, nobody has said that” Locke replied, taking a gulp of wine to only find a drop left. “And nobody has said the sun will rise in the morn’ either. You threaten the Prick Prince with a blade you expect the same in return.” As blunt as always.

Allard queried him. “You are certain of my brother’s execution?”

“If you decide to send him back to the capital that’s what’ll happen.” Locke was fully assured of his stance.

“And his family?” Allard asked. “Lady Gallae and the children are still in Briarhill. What of them?”

A tough question, silence fell for a moment. Then Captain Blade offered his first words. “They should be safe either way. They still roam freely, so I’m told.” And the Captain settles back into his quiet.

Nobody questioned him, whether he’s lied or told the truth he’d have reason for both. Yet Allard was always one to listen carefully to his advisers and he was wary of disobeying a royal command. The Crown had issued the arrest and safe return of his brother to the capital. After that, is not made clear.

Allard turned to Captain Blade. “You have closer ties to the Crown than any of us, Captain. Do you have any idea on their views on this situation?”

Blade cleared his throat “Her Majesty is known for her strict yet fair nature. She knew Lord Astarre for many years and he had a good legacy during his time as Keeper of Justice.”

“So you believe the Queen will spare my brother’s life?” Allard asked.

“I do.” He said. “The Prince, however, is another issue. He was the one who ordered Lord Astarre’s arrest and the one who was threatened with a knife.” Blade left the rest to be filled in. The Prince was known to be as stubborn as Gallen and with less wits about him. If Leondre’s death is a certainty does it truly matter where he dies?

The room fell silent again. A clunk of metal reminded Allard that his nephew Kiann stood meekly in the corner clutching a flagon of wine. The boy is not his sister’s son. Where she was wild he was tame, where she was superstitious he was studious. The tankard’s have been empty for a while now but mayhaps it’s best they stay that way.

It was Ennis Kester who sat opposite Allard that he waited to hear from the most . He had remained unnaturally reserved during the discussion. Ennis had spent a number of years at Vanguard as a ward to Allard’s father. They grew up together and now is counted by Allard as his closest ally. And they had a far stronger bond than that of him and Locke and more personal than the one he had with Roost.

All Allard has to do is look for his insight. “Keep him here.” Ennis said. “He did not kill anyone. He did not hurt anyone. The greatest minds go mad the fastest. Does he deserve to be killed for that? No. He deserves justice. The justice you, as Liege Lord, uphold across the Forelands. You send him to the Capital and he will not face justice. Only revenge.”

Allard knew he had to make a decision. In truth they lacked the provisions to make the journey to the Capital. Leondre had made it this fair in a month but he traveled alone, and by the looks of his poor mare without respite. Would they march north to the Capital or southward back home? He could entrust a dozen of the finest knights to race his brother back to the capital, but that’s no fate for any Lord. And he could face revolt from more than just Lord Gallen if that led to his brother’s death. By the gods, is this truly his end?

Either way there would be repercussions.

“Master Nickle, inform the men we leave for Vanguard at dawn.” Allard said.

“My Lord.” Roost bowed and took his leave while Locke rose to meet Allard.

“You’ve the smart choice, Lord Astarre.” Locke said.

“I hope I have.” Allard replied, meeting Lord Gallen’s hand. “However, we’re not finished yet. Given my position I cannot give the true justice required. Should I decide to judge my brother in our way I would like you to stand as judge in my stead.”

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Locke seemed pleased with Allard’s offer. “I’d be honoured, my Lord. Should it come to that.” He looked over to Ennis. “I suppose you wouldn’t make a fine judge, Kester.”

“A man is forever haunted by his past.” Ennis joked as he passed by them leaving the tent.

“I should depart too. I don’t like it when my men drink without me.” Locke added leaving only three in the tent.

“If you have no further need of me, my Lord, I should see to your brother’s watch.” Captain Blade said.

Allard thought of letting him go and leaving himself with at least a night’s privacy. No message could be sent to Briarhill until they returned to Vanguard but he was still somewhat unsettled with having a stranger in his council. He gestured to Kiann over the table to pour wine into two cups; “Come. I am certain your Crusaders are more than capable of guarding one unarmed man.”

Blade cannot refuse and took a seat. Allard dismissed Kiann with a wave leaving the two alone. “You’ll give word to the Capital that we’ve turned back to Vanguard?” Allard questioned.

“As is my duty to report.” Blade said toying with the cup in his grip.

“You’ve been in the Forelands for near a year now. Have you grown used to it?”

“I admit it’s quite different than back home.”

“And where is home?”

“Riverpoint, in the Flatlands.” Blade answered, holding back what he doesn’t have to give. “Still getting use to seasons as opposed to neverending summers.”

“The Flatlands are quite a distance. My sleep suffers being only a three days ride from home.” Allard commented.

“Such is the life of a Crusader.” Blade said, almost proudly.

Allard has always found the Crusader’s a strange sort.

They were set up over a century ago during the Age of Chaos. Riots, rebellion, disorder plagued the lands. It was King Typhon the Calm who rallied the troops and restored order. And to ensure that order he created the Crowned Crusaders to be stationed in every major hold in the realm. Most could be forgiven for seeing the Crusaders as a noble sort to sing songs about, and for beggars and orphans to aspire to be. Indeed Blade was an obviously invented name. Yet those in the Foreland are a suspicious sort where sparkling armour is no treasure and rich skin is common for travellers not council members.

“You’re young for a captain are you not?” Allard questioned. “Captain Gregorn was well in his sixties when he passed.”

“Fortunately for me m’lord, the Crusader’s recognise prowess above other outdated criteria.” Blade finally took a sip of wine.

To Allard that made him more Capital than Flatlands; those at court make a career of trading insults behind decorated cups. But still Allard would rather make an ally than foe. His father and Captain Gregorn had a functional relationship; they were both heavy drinkers and could share laughs during a feast. Beyond that Gregorn kept away from Vanguard’s walls spending his days training his men or travelling the countryside helping smallfolk.

So instead of responding in kind Allard sat mute. It didn’t take long for it to be clear that the words fit the Captain poorly. Mayhaps this is simply how he thinks all Lords speak to each other, with scorpion tongue’s. So Allard waited as the words hung in the air until Captain Blade could taste his own sting.

“It must be difficult. To see your own brother in chains. And in that state.” Blade said, trying to find his antidote.

“It is, indeed. I look up to Leondre greatly. But he is an Astarre. He’ll find the strength.” Allard replied.

Blade nodded. “I hope so, for all our sakes.” And with that he stood. “I’ve kept you too long, Lord Astarre.”

Allard dismissed him with a nod and the Captain left.

Allard was alone now, the rain and wind bashing against the tent noticeably duller. Summer neared its end. The storm season approached. This was but a tease.

But now it was time. In a breath Allard swallowed his wine. For courage mayhaps, certainly not the taste, he never fancied the fruitier drinks.

Allard threw on his fletcher deer coat, a prize possession of his. He had slewn the deer himself, a monster of a thing, over seven feet long, with deep red embers highlighting her brown fur brighter than any fletcher he’d ever seen. Ennis had ventured to say the beast had wandered from the deep wood where everything grows larger. Whereas Master Selmond suggested that her size was a natural consequence to having the additional bounty of Vienna’s Claim that even the animals themselves benefit.

Allard was a more practical man and cared not for the reason, he simply admired the fight she put up and wore her proud as an indigenous to the Forelands.

Throwing open the tent’s door Allard marched down through the sludge path. As he walked he glanced over the encampment’s standing; the shelters for the just over one hundred were erected crudely and lost their shape in the loose soil, fire’s suffocated from improper assembly. They had been mostly on horseback for speed but the creatures now seemed ill-tempered from the rain and were like to slow them down on the return.

The Foremen they had brought were no different and struggled in discomfort. There was an exception, the Craggymen, they slept soundly or drank merrily whilst the other two thirds were sleepless.

Of those from Vanguard, only the elite Pathfinders stood unflinching in the distance, lone mounted-knights holding their flanks with a torch in hand. Small dots in the horizon, but reassuring nonetheless.

Allard’s father had often lamented the consequences of one hundred years of peace. “Artists, con-men, and children, they may prosper, even thrive. But when knight’s blades go dull, and powerful men grow bored, what happens next?”. This thought was what started Evander’s practice of waking the men in the middle of the morning and marching until noon. They would follow no paths until they were lost deep in the Hinterlands and then they’d set up camp, break it down, and set it up again. He even brought Allard and Leondre from time to time. “A chieftain must suffer as their men.” He’d simply remark to their groans of complaint. Back in the days when the Vanguard’s forces numbered three times the two thousand it had under its command now. Back when chaos was thought to be simply resting.

As a man who found pleasure in rising before the sun, Roost had happily continued a more tempered version of this practice but mayhaps a more rigorous path was more prudent. Allard found some comfort in the knowledge that they were well behind the border, somewhere east to the road between Spearhead and Heart’s Cross. No known bandits roamed the area and House Pelagian, and in turn Eventide to the east, had been a close ally to the Forelands since Typhos redrew their border for good.

As Allard patrolled he reached the outskirts of the site left in the dark. Two Crusaders stood uneasy in the night air, their armour not built for the cold. “M’lord.” they muttered.

“Fellows.” A term to use when there is no better. Crusaders are not knights. They pledge allegiance to no lord, their vows sworn to the realm. They could serve in Vanguard or Iron Valour without no discretion. To what then are they loyal, Allard wasn’t certain.

“Give me a moment.” The Crusaders nodded and departed without complaint. Allard stared into the steely cage before him. Inside a huddled rag of cloth he called brother. He was not the man Allard remembered. He was pale, skinny, his teeth peeled back from his gums, and his eyes darted all around seeking enemies in the shadows. “Brother?” was all Allard could muster.

Leondre’s eyes did not meet Allard’s. “Thorns amongst the roses, ravens amongst the crows.” He spoke only to himself, Allard thought, trying to make sense of his baffling speech. “Silence, only silence listens.”

“Leondre. Look at me.” Allard crouched but Leondre’s focus became only more erratic.

“Crawling skin, crawling stillborns. And the fires, oh the fires. Mother will be mad. Mud in the sheets.” He jumped from one word to the next without any tether. He scratched at his skin unrelentingly, his entire arm scarred and flaking.

Allard could only watch. It seemed every second his brother descended more and more into a state of madness. He couldn’t entertain for even a moment the notion Leondre would threaten anyone, let alone the Prince. But this man? Allard did not know what this man was capable of.

“Questions and words. No. Melons and birds!” He seemed to correct himself. Allard could no longer stand to watch him like this. He stood.

“I will see to Gallae’s and the children's safety.” Allard said, almost expecting a reply. But nothing came but more unintelligent rambling. Allard turned, walking back to his tent.

“The mist. I can’t get the mist to clear, brother.”

Allard spun in a rush returning to the cage. “Leondre? Leondre? Are you there, brother?”

Leondre looked up at Allard. “A girl, a girl, a girl named rat! Who owned not a thing than a hat!” Leondre broke into verse. “And she was merry in having that! A girl, a girl, a girl named rat!”

Allard turned away from him, he couldn’t bear to watch him anymore. His brother sang unrestrained to himself returning to the darkness that held him close.

Nothing but a momentary flash of light, Allard decided, as he walked towards the windy horizon to clear his own head.