Darius Chapter 4
The sun sat high in the sky, projecting a brilliant yellow light across the Great Road. The sandstone dust, kicked up in the battle, rose and flew around in the breeze, creating a shimmering fog of grit that was slowly settling on the remaining soldiers of the Barringvale army. A cluster of flies hummed between the burnt carriages, lured by the heat of the cinders and the scent of burnt food. Only a meagre amount of provisions remained in the bags and barrels, mostly unpleasant items like hardtack and long-spoiled vegetables that had gone damp and putrid. The forest was once again quiet, the bushes shaking not from the disturbance of a concealed bandit, but through the more usual actions of the forest; a bird taking off from a branch, or a small animal plucking something edible off a leaf.
Marth stood amongst the burnt remains of his carriage and surveyed what was left of the Barringvale forces. What was once a shining example of strength was at present a drab, disorganized rabble. Soldiers sat in groups, scattered around the dusty road and the moist grass beside it like a child’s forgotten toys. Some mourned the loss of their comrades; others were silent and grim as they began to dig graves for each man or woman lost. Marth could not stop himself from thinking about what went wrong, how he could have stopped it, and the thousand ways he could’ve saved one more soldier. But there was nothing. They were within viewing distance of Erinstone, no bandit group should have come close to the manpower or weaponry that was needed to do this much damage to his army.
No single bandit group.
Grenfell approached; a large bandage on his torso visible through his torn clothes, and his arm close against his body in a sling. Tears gathered in the advisor’s eyes as he went to speak.
“I’m so sorry sir, I shouldn’t have had us stop in such a vulnerable place. I didn’t notice the tree line start to taper in.”
“It’s okay, Gren, no one could have predicted it. We gave them as good as we got and more. I’m proud of our men.”
Marth started to wander, helping the soldiers to save what remained from the carriages, or carry the wounded into makeshift carts or onto horseback. As he helped a soldier to sit upright on his horse, he saw Darius out of the corner of his eye, walking toward him.
“Marth! My gods Marth I wasn’t sure...”
Darius’s arms were stained with blood. After his initial berserker rush, he regrouped with the other soldiers and did his best to protect the pack, putting away his hammer and instead lifting a heavy, iron-trimmed shield in each arm, providing a reliable barrier from the onslaught of arrows they endured. Marth noticed the blood on his arms cracking as it dried, leaving a spiderweb of frail flakes on the blacksmith that broke away at times, leaving him looking like he was peeling away after a very peculiar sunburn. After two near-death experiences in as many days – the first in his life – Darius was counting his blessings that he had been lucky enough to avoid bandits on his journey from Karringlock. He felt foolish now for having walked the Great Road for so many days, so often in plain sight with a (somewhat) full pack and a pouch of coins in his pocket. He wondered what would have come of him if he had left Karringlock one day earlier, thus reaching that final fateful stretch to Erinstone by himself. He shuddered.
“Whose blood, Darius? Not yours?” Marth gave him a once-over to check all limbs were present and accounted for.
“Nah, most of it is horse’s blood – a soldier of yours pulled an arrow from one of the poor buggers thinking he’d bandage it, but the arrow was all that was holding the vessel together. I tried to help him staunch the bleeding, but we were too slow. Suppose we won’t be needing them to pull the carriages anymore though.”
Despite the circumstances, Marth chuckled at the half-hearted joke. It felt good to have something other than anger and sadness in his system.
“You’re very right Darius, you’re very right.”
An hour later, the soldiers were beginning to reform as best they could. The ceremonial uniforms were left behind, the thought of changing into them now leaving a bad taste in the mouth. The carriages too were left, only the carts that held wounded were brought on the final trek to the gates of Erinstone. The journey was silent aside from the occasional command, each soldier coming to terms with the new Barringvale forces. A young soldier made a remark about the availability of promotions, but the stolid glares from the men around him was all the feedback he needed.
When they reached the outer farmland of the kingdom, the peasants and serfs stopped their work and stared with confused frowns at the shaggy Darius leading the main pack on Marth’s horse, Lord Grenfell behind him, leaning against his horse’s neck, asleep with his wounded arm dangling towards the ground, and Marth, jogging even further ahead than Darius, spear in hand. The army was still very large to those seeing it for the first time, but it lacked the grandeur they were expecting of their future Prince. There was no fanfare, no streamers and fireworks and music, only the grey-faced soldiers spurred on by the thought of hot food and a dry barracks.
They group was let through by the first two sets of guards without question – they had been expected hours earlier – but at the third gate, a chubby, powdered man barred their path. His arms were folded into his robes, and his white gown covered the entirety of his body from chin to toe, stopping so close to the ground that if the man stood anything other than perfectly upright, the robe would collect the mud and ox droppings that were a staple of the trade paths throughout Erinstone. The robed man stepped forward, past Marth, and addressed Darius.
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“My Lord, what happened? Were you attacked? Shall we send out a squadron?”
Darius took a moment to realize that the man was looking at him, expecting a response. When he realized the mistake, he stared open-mouthed at Marth, and they both broke out into an uncontrollable guffaw, Darius almost falling from the sizable sixteen-hand gelding. Marth composed himself first – the practice of royalty – and clapped their welcome party on the shoulder, smiling at him and staining the crisp robe.
“If Darius here was the Prince of Barringvale I think the world might just collapse in on itself – I am Marth Ranvost, son of Tarth Ranvost, the Ruler of Barringvale and what else do you call him up here? The Ogre of the South?”
The robed man’s cheeks and ears glowed red through his white powder, the disbelief clear on his face. He forged on, keen to get past the mistake.
“My sincerest apologies my Lord, and I assure you, Lord Ranvost is very well regarded here in Erinstone, the people revere his military prowess. But you must be tired, let me, Marcough, guide you to your lodgings, and my assistant will show the soldiers to the barracks.”
A smaller, even more rotund man wobbled over to Marth and bowed as low as his gut would allow before moving down the line of soldiers, advising them to follow him back the way they had come. The remainder of the group moved off, following Marcough along a neat grey road that ran adjacent to the trade path. Darius looked around at the people and houses as they rode. The houses built upon one another like a lopsided jigsaw, but it wasn’t messy, it instead gave the city an organic feel, like it had sprouted these structures in response to the very first settlers of Erinstone. Most buildings were primarily covered in a dark green paint and offset by a spruce wood, with lighting consisting of large bronze braziers out on the streets, and smaller canisters inside the houses holding thick wax candles.
Marcough did not speak as he strode along ahead of them. He smiled at people as they travelled, but people did not start smiling back until they reached a more wealthy-looking part of the kingdom – where the cozy, bubble-shaped houses were replaced by rigid, straight edges and manicured hedges.
A half hour later, the group had travelled to the inner sanctum of the kingdom. The gates that had begun as small, picketed fences armed by a handful of soldiers had become towering barriers guarded by a squadron of heavily armored and well-equipped troops. When they arrived at the Royal Castle, Darius was overwhelmed by its size, but not by its beauty. The structure was largely a monotone bluestone brick, punctuated by navy banners holding the Erinstone insignia, a white horse with what looked like a sparrow on its back.
Strange.
Marth and Darius had swapped positions given the confusion it caused earlier – it would truly have been awkward if Lady Silfor had stridden past Marth and introduced herself to Darius as his soon-to-be-wife. He was sure that the royal family would be a bit better informed on what Marth looked like, but it didn’t hurt to play it safe.
Marcough and his assistant led the trio of Marth, Darius and Grenfell to a small anteroom containing a rolled-out red carpet, still raised at the ends from a long time in storage. The assistant rang a silver bell fastened to the wall, prompting a woman to come careening in from the main chamber, the weight of her dark red armor almost carrying her into Grenfell’s injured side. She stood to attention.
“Prince Ranvost sir! It’s lovely to meet you sir! I was sent word that you were attacked by bandits just outside of the Erinstone province, is this correct sir?”
“It is, but what’s left of the group is well gone now. They turned tail and ran once we got the upper hand”
Marth didn’t go into further detail, unsure if he could trust anyone with his growing suspicions about the encounter.
The woman looked to Darius, noticing the heavy hammer on his belt, and the charcoal color of his hands.
“And by those hands, you must be our head-smith Darius! I’m afraid that Marcough here has led you a bit far into the castle grounds, you’ll need to backtrack a while to reach the forges. You probably passed near them on the way here.”
Darius nodded and turned to Marth, holding out his hand in farewell.
“Well Marth, I suppose we’ve come far enough, I believe I owe you and your soldiers an unpayable debt after all we went through.”
Marth shook his hand, his disappointment clear.
“You owe nothing at all, Darius, you also saved lives out there. Although my sword took a bit of a beating, how would you feel about making its restoration your first project? I can drop by the forges in a few days and pick it up?”
“Aye, don’t get yourself lost coming to visit me in the slums though! And you’re invited too, Grenfell.”
With that, Darius took the sword in its scabbard, hitched up his pack and left the Royal Castle. The afternoon was mild, and birdsong filled the air as he navigated his way to the forges. By himself, the locals paid him no heed, and he got to see the people of Erinstone as they usually lived. Children played in the dirt of the trade path with sticks and small marble pieces, throwing them at the targets they scratched on the ground. Elderly men and women warmed themselves by the braziers despite the layers they already wore. Darius was starting to feel a chill as well despite the mild temperature, being so used to the dry heat of the forge. He relished the thought that with a larger team of apprentice smiths beneath him, he would not be subject to as much of the back-breaking work of shoveling coal and hauling metal like he was accustomed to in Karringlock.
“But you’ve got to earn your stripes” he mumbled to himself.
When the sun began to set, its rays throwing striking sprays of pink and orange across the horizon, Darius finally located the Castle Forges. There was no familiar glow of the forge, it seemed it was not kept running at all times – something Darius would have to change. He noticed two people out the front, a small boy and taller man in a dark-green cloak with gold trimming. As Darius approached, he caught sight of the man dropping a small pouch of what seemed to be coins in the boy’s hands, then he turned back to where Darius had come from, pulled the side of his cowl across his face, and limped towards the castle.
Darius turned to the boy.
“Hullo lad, I’m Darius. Who was that?”
The boy gave him a toothy grin and stepped back, guarding his new wealth.
“His name was Nunya!”
“Nunya who?”
“Nunya business!”
Darius sighed and went inside the forge to his quarters. It had been an exhausting day, and being beaten so thoroughly by the young boy pushed him just to the point of deciding the needs of the forge could wait until tomorrow.
He lay down, and before he could gather his thoughts, he was asleep.