The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the countless homes in the City of Kievren. The flickering light of torches barely penetrated the thick stone walls, adding to the oppressive atmosphere within. The city's streets were winding and twisted, shrouded in a darkness that seemed almost tangible. No matter how many torches were lit or candles were placed in windows, the darkness seemed to swallow them whole, a voracious beast that thrived on despair.
Amidst the time of respite for the night, the sounds of hammers and saws echoed throughout the city. The relentless clanging and grinding were a grim symphony of haste and fear, as the carpenters labored tirelessly to reinforce the city’s defenses. Walls were being shored up, and two new outer walls were being constructed. Every clang of metal on stone, every rasp of a saw through wood, was a reminder of the impending conflict that was coming over the city of Kievren. For the past months, their work never stopped, even as exhaustion etched deep lines into the faces of the workers.
Fear drove them, fear of the darkness that seemed to have a will of its own, fear of the war that was coming.
The streets were lined with ragged figures, faces hollowed by hunger and eyes wide with terror. Mothers clutched their children tightly, whispering empty reassurances that did nothing to quell the palpable sense of dread. The stench of decay hung in the air.
On top of the tallest hill at the center of the city, stood the mighty castle of Vlaskov.
The grand hall that houses the living quarters of this city’s ruler, once a place of revelry and courtly elegance, now felt like a tomb. Looking at these sights from the open-top balcony of the Vlaskov Castle was Duke Alexander of House Barclay, Lord of the Hagfred Duchy under the Kingdom of Freymar. After staring at the darkness that seemed to return the gaze, his eyes were drawn back to the great map spread out on the large table before him. Metal pins and wooden markers denoted the positions of his forces, the enemy's advances, and the strategic points of interest. It was a grim tableau, a visual representation of the kingdom's slow, inexorable slide into anarchy.
In the confines and safety of his walls, even the flood of devastating events was able to penetrate through. A relentless plague was sweeping throughout the land, leaving only death in its wake. The dead and dying littered the landscape, some not even buried as those tasked with the grim duty succumbed to the sickness themselves. The clergy tried to reduce the suffering, their prayers and ministrations were a small comfort to the afflicted. Yet even they could not withstand the plague's relentless march.
Then he heard about the nomadic hordes from the Sabertooth Plains descending to their kingdom, their brutal raids adding to the kingdom's woes. Villages were razed, their inhabitants slaughtered or taken as slaves. The once fertile fields were left scorched and barren after being plundered.
In great divine mischief, the weight of the kingdom's fate was suddenly pressed heavily upon him. The recent news of the king's death had only deepened the sense of hopelessness. And as if the gods or whatever or whoever above was playing with him were not done yet, sent the plague to also claim the entire royal family and court, leaving a void at the heart of the kingdom's leadership.
Currently, the capital city of their kingdom had become a ghost city overnight after it was struck by the hand of Death and Pestilence.
The king’s only living relative left was his sister who was now the wife of the duke. This tie to the royal bloodline made their only son, a mere child of seven, the rightful heir to the throne, far too young to rule a kingdom on the brink of collapse.
And his son had become an ironic symbol of the kingdom's fragility.
A knock at the door broke his reverie. He turned to see one of his most trusted advisors, Ser Bartholomew, enter the room. The knight's face was set in a grim expression, his armor still dusted with the grime of the day's work on the walls.
"Your Grace," Bartholomew said, bowing slightly. "The latest reports from our spies just came in."
Alexander nodded, gesturing for the knight to continue. Bartholomew stepped forward, unrolling a parchment and placing it on the table. The duke’s eyes scanned the report, his frown deepening with each line.
“Count Harkon and Baroness Ronda… just announced their support for the count milord," Bartholomew said.
The duke sighed and had a quiet moment for himself before giving command to Bartholomew.
“Call the Lord Commander. Immediately.”
“Yes, milord.” The captain quickly disappeared as he closed the doors behind him.
Then Alexander turned his attention to the cackling hearth that created the warmth in his hall. His wife sat silently by the fire, her eyes still wet in tears from mourning the loss of her family as she gently stroked the head of their sleeping son. The flickering firelight cast shadows across her face, highlighting the deep sorrow etched into her features. She had once been a beacon of strength and grace in their House, but the weight of recent events had slowly crushed her spirit. The room was quiet, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the distant murmur of activity from the construction across the city below.
She gently stroked the head of her sleeping son, his small body curled against her for warmth and comfort. She turned to her husband as he entered the room, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Must we involve him? He is just a child, Alexander. He was not born to become a king. The weight of the throne will crush him. He doesn't deserve this."
Duke Alexander approached her, his expression softening as he knelt beside her chair. He placed a reassuring hand on her arm.
Alexander turned from the window, his heart aching at the sight of his wife and son. He crossed the room and knelt beside her, taking her free hand in his.
"I know, my love," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret. "But we have no choice. Even if we don't act, the other nobles will still rally behind our son to proclaim him as the true heir to the throne. We will inevitably get roped into conflict. Most of the nobles that are still loyal to the king will never support Count Reimblitz."
Her eyes, red-rimmed and filled with unshed tears, met his.
"Reimblitz is a distant branch of our family. Not even a mere shadow of the royal bloodline. Why would they consider him? He would and should be considered as a usurper. Just because he announced to had been chosen by the Great Eye in the archbishop’s dream, is that enough for them and the Church to support his claim? Is it even a real word from the Great Eye?"
"Because he told them what they all wanted to hear," Alexander replied, bitterness creeping into his tone. "Politics and religion are complicated things, my dear. But when they meet in the same place, death comes to those who are near. Even the neutral lords and houses are starting to side with him, fearing excommunication if they don't."
He couldn’t bring himself to tell the conspiracy that was probably happening in continental politics. He already suspects that the disastrous failure of the Fifth Crusade to take the Edenlands was probably one of the reasons for this current dilemma in their kingdom. He knew that the church had to find a way to save its reputation from ruin by covering up its blunder by redirecting what was left of the Crusaders to another easier target. It was also an open secret on how their former king had planned to support another religion in the past. A religion that contradicts and threatens the authority of the Holy See. The Papal States needed a scapegoat and a target for the frustration of their losses against the barbarian pagans of the North.
His wife shuddered only upon hearing his words, clutching their son tighter.
"But our boy...he's so young. He won't understand. He deserves a chance to be a child."
"That is why we must be the ones to initiate," Alexander said firmly. "If we take control of the situation, we can protect him. We can ensure that he will be safe from being used and manipulated by those who aim to control him and that he grows into his role under our guidance. If we are forced into this, we will have no say, no power to shield him from the inevitable dangers."
She looked down at their son, his innocent face peaceful in sleep.
"I just want to keep him safe," she whispered. “Promise me, my love. Promise me that you will protect him.”
Alexander patted her head, trying to offer some semblance of comfort.
"This I swear to you, as the Great Eye as my witness, that I will protect both of you with my life," he vowed. "But we must move quickly. The support for Reimblitz is growing. If we do not act now, we may lose our chance to secure the throne for our son."
His wife nodded, though her eyes remained distant, lost in her grief.
“Lately, I have been thinking of heretical thoughts.” She continued. “Whether the Great Eye truly exists. Because if he did, why does he make and let people suffer? Especially the innocents. Maybe he does not exist at all.”
“Hush my love. That is not true. The Great Eye never abandons those who are right. And this is just a test to challenge our faith in him. This is the time that we truly should believe in him. And it is Great Eye’s will that I am married to you. He gave you to me. And our son to us. He will never do anything without reason. And most of all, he gave me the power to protect both of you.” Alexander kissed her forehead and rose to his feet, his mind already racing with the next steps. “Now rest your mind. Ease your heart. Believe in him as you would believe in me.”
She smiled awkwardly at his words and nodded again. But his thoughts were already thinking of another. He needed to rally the loyalists, to solidify their position before Reimblitz's influence grew too strong. The kingdom was a powder keg, and any misstep could ignite this civil war into something he could not control that would consume them all.
It took a while for his wife to finally drift into an uneasy sleep from exhaustion and grief. Duke Alexander carefully carried each of them to their chambers and laid them back to their beds. He kissed their foreheads, lingering a moment to absorb the warmth and innocence of his sleeping child and the love for his wife. As he quietly closed the door to their rooms, the weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him even harder. He turned and made his way back through the dimly lit corridors of the castle, each step echoing with the urgency of the night's dire news.
He met with Lord Commander Adolfe of House Vurn in the strategy room. Adolfe, a seasoned warrior with a steely gaze, stood over a large map spread across a heavy oak table, his face grim.
"Your Grace, you called me." Adolfe began, his voice heavy with the burden of his message.
“I am sure you already have heard about the switching of Count Harkon and Baroness Ronda?”
"Yes milord, but I heard even worse,” Adolfe replied with more news to tell him.
“What?” the duke’s stomach churned for hearing another complication.
“I have just received word from a raven. Viscount Dmitri of House Watner's forces have been defeated. We… we… fifteen thousand men were lost. He had failed to take Myrcaith Castle."
Alexander's heart sank.
"What of Dmitri and his vassals? Have they survived?"
"The message did not specify," Adolfe replied. "But we can hope.”
Both of them went quiet for a moment, a pin drop could break this silence.
“It's a significant setback. We can still muster more men, but experienced commanders are irreplaceable." The duke sighed in frustration.
As if to compound the bad news, another raven arrived just then as it perched on the glass windows. Adolfe took the message from the bird's leg and quickly scanned its contents, his expression growing darker. The message was brief but devastating for both of their minds.
"Milord…. the Port City of Avianca is under siege and currently in a blockade. They are bearing the banners of the Hermes Kingdom."
The navy that he had painstakingly built for months was now trapped, its ships had become useless in the harbor.
“Damn it all. This is just madness.” The duke could only cover his face with his hand just to hold his sanity back from falling into despair.
“Milord!” Adolfe quickly went to his side just in case the duke collapsed from being too exhausted, mentally and physically from all of the problems that he kept receiving.
“I am fine. I just need a moment.” Alexander raised his hand to stop his loyal vassal. He took several breaths and emptied his mind just to make himself focus on the possible solutions.
"Adolfe… That navy… the fleet in Avianca was crucial for transporting soldiers and supply." Alexander finally returned for discussion but his fists remained clenched at his sides. “This just confirmed our suspicion that the count is getting foreign assistance. If the republic is supporting him, then that means the Mede Island kingdoms were also on his side.”
"Our enemies are moving faster than we anticipated. They wanted to cut off our naval power, seeking to isolate us." Adolfe mused.
“How many men do we have right now?” the duke asked.
"We have fifty-three thousand men at the ready, encamped just outside the city. Among them, thirty thousand heavy infantry, ten thousand knights, and three thousand longbowmen while the rest were mercenaries. I can guarantee that they are well trained, and well-armed. Additionally, there are about sixty-eight thousand men scattered throughout your territory, garrisoned in the forts and castles. That is according to our recent inspection."
Despite the numbers in thousands, these were still sobering in comparison to the count’s increasing support.
"And how quickly can we recruit more men? Without the other lords."
“Milord?” Adolfe was confused at the question as he couldn’t fathom why the duke wanted more men but he decided to answer. "We could probably raise another thirty thousand, but it will take at least seven months."
Time was a luxury they did not have. Alexander felt the walls closing in. The demon of desperation was clawing at his mind at him, but he forced it down, focusing on the immediate need.
"We need immediate reinforcements," he said, pacing the room. "We will use my coffers. Send men across the cities to recruit mercenaries. We need at least twenty thousand more to bolster our current forces. If you can exceed that number, even better."
Adolfe nodded, a spark of determination in his eyes.
"It will be done, Your Grace. We will find the mercenaries and get them here as soon as possible."
“Also prioritize Ricortia. I want a southern front to be opened there. I already heard about the defection of some lords there. We must not let them reinforce or meet up with the Count Reimblitz forces.”
The duke took a deep breath, trying to steady himself against the torrent of bad news.
"We must act swiftly. Every moment we delay, our enemies grow stronger. We cannot afford to lose any more ground."
The Lord Commander turned to leave, but Alexander called him back.
"Adolfe, make sure the other lords know what is at stake. Their Houses and their very lives depend on our success. We must fight with everything we have."
"I will, Your Grace," Adolfe vowed. "We will not falter."
The Lord Commander bowed and left to carry out his orders, leaving Alexander alone in the strategy room. The flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows across the map, a stark reminder of the uncertain future that lay ahead.
As he stared at the map, his mind churned with strategies and contingencies. They were racing against time, a race they could not afford to lose.
Alexander knew that they were standing on the precipice of a great and terrible conflict. The forces arrayed against them were formidable, their resolve steeled by fanaticism and ambition. He could only hope that their efforts would be enough to turn the tide. For his wife, his son, and the kingdom, he would fight with every ounce of strength he had left. But deep down, in the recesses of his heart, he couldn't shake the gnawing fear that they were already too late.
The fate of Vlaskov hung in the balance, and he would do whatever it took to ensure that his son's inheritance was not a kingdom of ashes but a realm that could still be saved from the abyss. With a final, resolute glance at the map, Alexander left the war room.
-----
In the neighboring county of Kryzen, nestled within the western borders of the Kingdom of Freymar, stood Castle Randall. The luxurious keep was a testament to its lord, Count Royle's immense wealth and the seat of power of House Lamplight. Its grandeur was evident in every corner. The great hall was a magnificent display of affluence, vanity, and fortune.
The floors were covered with plush, imported carpets, their patterns a dizzying array of shapes and hues that spoke of distant lands and exotic cultures. Chandeliers of crystal and gold hung from the high ceilings, their many candles casting a warm, flickering light that played across the room’s many treasures.
The furniture, crafted from the rarest woods and inlaid with intricate carvings, gleamed under the soft glow of golden candelabras. From elaborately carved mahogany tables to chairs upholstered in rich velvet and brocade. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting heroic battles and legendary hunts. Each one is a masterpiece of intricate embroidery and vibrant colors, woven again with threads of gold and silver. Alongside these hung masterful paintings, each worth a small fortune, showcasing the artistic prowess of the kingdom's finest painters.
In glass display cases set into the walls, suits of plate armor, polished to a mirror-like shine, stood sentinel in various alcoves. Their menacing visages were softened by the artistry that went into their creation for these were not the armor of war but of vanity, gilded and encrusted with precious gemstones, each set a masterpiece of craftsmanship and opulence. Suits of armor with gold filigree, breastplates adorned with emeralds, and helmets inlaid with sapphires and rubies sparkled in the candlelight, each piece a testament to the Count's wealth and status.
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Yet, despite the grandeur surrounding them, the band of mercenaries gathered in the hall seemed to blend in seamlessly. Their battleplate armor, gilded with beautiful ornamentation, demonstrated the skill of the smiths who had crafted them. Their shields of the heater variety gleamed with golden accents, and their sallet helmets were adorned with intricate designs, making them appear as rich and formidable as the Count himself.
Count Royle, however, was neither impressed nor pleased by their presence. His face, usually calm and composed, was now twisted with anger and frustration. He sat at the head of a long table. Probably in the middle of his luxurious lunch, his expression one of barely concealed anger. His rich robes, lined with fur and embroidered with gold thread, marked him as a man of significant means. A crown of silver and sapphires rested on his brow, glinting in the candlelight as he leaned forward, his voice a mixture of frustration and disbelief.
"Could you repeat your words, captain?"
The captain of the mercenary company, a figure with average height, stepped forward. His armor, more ornate than the rest, marked him as the obvious leader.
"Count Harkon had pledged his allegiance to Count Reimblitz, the future king of Freymar. And he sends us and other mercenary companies here to requisition needed resources for this righteous war," he repeated, his voice steady and unwavering.
"This is outrageous!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the grand hall. However, the captain stood his ground.
"We were hired by Count Harkon to requisition supplies and plunder necessary resources from those noble families that were planning their support or who have already pledged their support to Duke Alexander. This includes you, Count Royle."
Count Royle’s face turned a shade of crimson as he slammed his fist onto the table.
"I have not pledged support to either side! I am neutral in this conflict!" he shouted, his voice cracking with frustration.
The captain shrugged, while his expression remained indifferent.
"It doesn’t matter, milord. You have been sentenced as a target for the inquisition by Count Reimblitz himself, under the blessing of the Church. Any house supporting the duke or remaining neutral will be excommunicated, and their lands and resources will be forfeited. For these lands are given by Great Eye’s Vision and he has the full right to take it away from those who had heretical thoughts." he said coldly.
“T-the Inquisition?” The count’s eyes widened with fury and desperation. He turned to his minister, who stood nearby, clutching a document handed to him by the captain.
"Check it again," Count Royle ordered, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.
The minister, a thin man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, unrolled the document and scrutinized it. After a moment, he looked up, his face ashen.
"I-it is authentic, my lord," he confirmed. "The seals of Count Harkon and Count Reimblitz are genuine."
Count Royle sank back into his chair, his hands trembling. Desperation clawed at his heart.
"This cannot be," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He looked up at the captain, despair was starting to etch into every line of his face.
"Very well. Inform Count Reimblitz that House Lamlight pledges its support to their cause." The count finally yielded. His eyes flashed with a mixture of fury and helplessness.
But instead, the captain shook his head slowly.
"Count Harkon's orders are clear. Our task is to cripple any potential or possible support for Duke Alexander and to ensure that your resources are redirected to Count Reimblitz’s war effort. Your pledge will not change our orders." The captain's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing in their depths. "We are not here to demand your allegiance, Count Royle. We will take what we were sent here to do.”
"This is beyond extortion! Do you even have the honor and respect?" he spat.
"Call it what you will. But the Count called it plunder. We are soldiers of fortune, bound by the orders of our employer. You can comply, or we can take what we need by force." The captain shrugged. "Stalling will also do you no good, my lord. We are merely the first of many mercenary companies sent by Count Harkon. It’s only a matter of time before others arrive to plunder your countryside. But I have the authority to stop such attacks, as stated in the document signed by Count Harkon."
The knights remained silent, gritting their teeth at the arrogance and impudence shown by the mercenary captain to their liege, and finally snapped and unsheathed their blades.
“You cur!”
“Devils of Greed!”
“Even if you kill us all, we are but just a first wave of mercenaries that are sent here to requisition under the orders and blessing of the Holy See.” The mercenary captain nonchalantly replied to the insults.
However, Count Royle’s eyes narrowed as he sensed a subtle hint in the captain's words. Something didn’t add up, and his instincts urged him to probe further.
"What exactly are you suggesting?" he asked, his tone sharp and questioning.
The captain’s face remained impassive, but his eyes gleamed with a cunning light.
"Count Harkon hired you to pillage under his orders," he said slowly, emphasizing each word that the mercenary captain mentioned. "But instead of torching my farms, my fi, fields, and villages, your company came straight to my castle..." Royle's brow furrowed, wanting the captain to clear his sarcastic confusion.
So, the captain continued.
"We are not knights bound by chivalry but mercenaries driven by coin which means we can be... flexible with our orders. If we were to accept a 'requisition' from you in the form of payment, we could report to Count Harkon that you assisted us in subjugating a rebellious noble who aimed to support Duke Alexander. This would place you in the good graces of both Count Harkon and Count Reimblitz while also guaranteeing that no other parties sent by the count will plunder your lands.”
Count Royle's eyes widened as he grasped the unspoken offer. The captain was hinting at a bribe, a way to circumvent the official orders while framing it as assistance to his employer’s cause.
"I see," Royle said slowly. "So, for a price, you and your mercenary friends will overlook my territory, leave my lands and people untouched, and vouch for my loyalty."
The captain nodded.
"How much?" Royle asked, his voice steady.
"16,200 gold bars and 20,500 silver bars," the captain replied. "Our company will take 200 gold bars and 1,700 silver bars as our ‘private fee’ and the remainder is what Count Harkon expects to be plundered from yours and other rich counties that he had listed."
The captain leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
The sum was staggering. It was worth a castle’s ransom. Yet it was preferred to provoke an unwanted conflict with CoReimblitz'slitz forces and the possible excommunication from the church. The captain was not just delivering a threat but offering a way out. Finally, with a heavy heart and a sense of defeat, Count Royle nodded to his minister.
"Very well… Prepare the payment," he said, his voice hollow, barely above a whisper.
The minister bowed and hurried to comply, while the mercenary captain watched with a cold, calculating gaze. The wealth of House Lamlight, so proudly displayed, was now being parceled out to the very forces that sought to undermine it.
As they worked, Royle sat in his grand hall, surrounded by the trappings of his wealth, feeling more powerless than he ever had in his life. Even if he orders these mercenaries to be killed by his knights, he would still risk provoking and getting the attention of CoReimblitz'slitz forces. He slumped into his ornate chair, the weight of his predicament bearing down on him.
"Captain Vulkrun. Take what you need and leave... please."
The captain inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the Count's concession.
"We will take our leave once the payment is secured," he said. "And pray that our paths do not cross again, Count Royle. For your sake."
Long shadows were cast across the courtyard, the captain meticulously oversaw his men count, inspect, and load the chests full of gold and silver After the amount was confirmed, were then placed in the carriages that were also provided by Count Royle. Each carriage was drawn by large destriers equipped with heavy full plates. Another generous gesture to expedite the mercenaries' departure.
Vulkrun's lieutenant, Tresmer, stood beside him, a smirk playing on her lips.
"The Count must be desperate to see us leave, providing twelve carriages with four warhorses each." She remarked, her tone laced with amusement. “They even provided us a month's supply of fodder.”
Vulkrun, always the pragmatist, nodded.
"It is only natural. We were sent here to raid and pillage. The Count is ensuring we leave quickly, taking no chances that we might change our minds." Vulkrun said as he noticed some figures shadowing their actions and movement from a distance.
“As expected of a county that prospered due to its gold and silver mines.” Tresmer whistled.
As the last chest was secured, Vulkrun mounted the lead carriage with Tresmer. The convoy moved out, the clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels echoing through the courtyard. Count Royle watched from the battlements, his expression a mix of relief and bitterness.
They were now far from the castle when Tresmer noticed the growling of their wolves they followed their carriage side, and she turned to the direction where they were facing and smirked. She finally realized that the mounted knights of Count Royle were following them far from their line of sight.
"He was not taking any chances huh? You may have spooked him too much captain.”
"And he’s right to be cautious. The count’s wealth is impressive, even the ransom he paid us was probably just half of his annual income from his gold mines. But that wealth attracts people like us." Vulkrun replied. “Anyways, we got what we came for and more. Let's get out of here before the situation changes. There’s no need to linger in this county."
Half a day had passed since the mercenary company left Count Royle's domain, the knights who had shadowed them finally turning back as they crossed into the next county. The sun dipped below the horizon; the afternoon faded into a bright, starlit night.
Cornt, now riding a sturdy new warhorse, rode up to the side of the lead carriage where Vulkrun was driving alongside Tresmer. He opened his sallet helmet, exposing his orange facial hair, overgrown b, and his obvious admiration.
"Captain, I’m impressed. You truly pulled off an impressive feat back there.” Cornt remarked. "Using that old document from Count Harkon to deceive Count Royle... Brilliant! Brilliant as always! Who would have thought something from two years ago, when we were still fighting the western kingdoms, could still be so effective?"
"It’s all about knowing when to play your cards, exploitation of information, and using the beauty of bureaucracy, Cornt. It still carries enough weight to deceive a desperate and fearful man. Fear, paranoia, and cowardness make a person easy to manipulate. Especially when you coincide your lie to a known fact, then sprinkle it with things that the person doesn’t want to hear, it becomes the truth in his ears."
Cornt chuckled, glancing at the laden carriages behind them.
"Still this quite a haul! Hundreds of chests full of gold and silver, twelve carriages, and enough warhorses to make us appear as a mounted company with even more spare heavy destriers. Count Royle practically gave everything more than what we wanted, begging us to leave."
“Get used toCountornt. It will become a normal thing once we get more and more contracts. Especially when this kingdom is slowly destroying itself.” Tresmer inserted.
Cornt nodded but couldn't hide his worry as his expression grew serious.
"But, Captain, what if Count Royle finds out the truth? Or Count Harkon? That document is void. Being blacklisted from Freymar and having a bounty on our heads is the least of the worst things that could happen."
"It doesn’t matter if he finds out later. By the time he realizes, we’ll be long gone. Besides, Count Royle won’t have the time to investigate. He’ll be too preoccupied." Vulkrun shrugged nonchalantly.
Tresmer and Cornt exchanged puzzled glances.
"Why is that?" Tresmer leaned in, curious.
Then they saw Vulkrun's cold and calculating smile.
"From the information I've gathered, Count Royle’s territory will soon be attacked by the nomahorse lordsords from the Sabertooth Plains. He won’t have the time or resources to investigate us. And even if he does, we’ll be long gone, off to greener pastures for new contracts."
"So, we get away clean while he’s dealing with the nomads. Clever, Captain. Very clever." Cornt whistled low.
As they continued on the road, Vulkrun spotted a hill in the distance, its summit offering a clear view of the surrounding fields and a river flowing nearby. He raised his hand, signaling those behind him.
"We’ll make camp there," he announced. "It's defensible, and we have access to water."
The mercenaries moved swiftly to set up their camp, the flickering light of their fires casting eerie shadows across the field. The sound of the river added a deceptive tranquility to the scene. The cold night air filled with the smell of roasting meat and the hum of low conversation. The mercenaries took turns on watch, their eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of danger. The night deepened, and the camp settled into a cautious but celebratory mood.
Vulkrun was once again in their main tent, looking over various maps and documents pinned by daggers and knives under the light of lanterns and torches. Compares the information that he received and adapts the changes to the pieces on the map that he had arranged. A mock display of players was put over the map, showing the potential clients that would desire his service. Especially when the boiling situation over the throne was rising.
This once-mighty kingdom was now a cauldron of turmoil. The king lay dead, felled by a merciless plague that swept through the land like a dark wind, leaving the throne vacant and the future uncertain. The duke’s son, only seven years old, was the closest blood relative and rightful heir of the king, but power-hungry lords and ambitious counts saw this as an opportunity to seize control for their rise to power. A profitable situation for someone like him to exploit.
Then at the corner of his sight, Tresmer approached, slightly interrupting his concentration. She handed him a flask. Three more shadows appeared behind her. They were his other three lieutenants, Torus, Freya, and Nimea. They all raised their flasks full of wine.
“You are already getting busy.” Nimea whistled, playing with the wooden piece that he had put on the map.
“I just like playing with the map,” Vulkrun replied with a shrug and a smile.
“Studying how the crusaders were almost wiped out by the pagans in the north?”
“Well, that was an interesting thing, as they were decisively defeated due to allowing their enemies to surround them. Arrogance is one of the vilest poisons. I am also interested in how the Crusaders were able to escape that-”
“Yeah, yeah… anyways, put that aside for now, and let’s have a celebratory drink for our profitable haul today,” Tresmer said, interrupting him from continuing another talk of the recent disaster in the North.
“To our golden future!” His lieutenants yelled.
"To success. And to the chaos we leave in our wake." Vulkrun took a swig, the burn of the liquor reminded him of their newfound wealth.
"We’ve made a small fortune today," Tresmer said, a rare smile spreading across his face. "But what’s our plan now, Captain?"
Vulkrun gestured for them to gather around the table, probably to discuss their next move. Their captain’s mind works through possibilities.
“The offer from Baroness Eufern speaks of a guard contract for her daughter’s safe transport to his future husband.”
“True.”
"Then there's a port city where we can start the” The start of their discussion was abruptly shattered by the sounds of the arrival of two fast riders from his company. Vulkrun and his lieutenants quickly got out of their tent and saw two of his scouts dragging along a gagged and visibly beaten prisoner.
The riders dismounted swiftly, presenting their captive to Vulkrun.
“We caught this one sneaking around, Captain,” one of the riders explained. “We thought he might be a spy sent by Count Royle.”
Vulkrun’s eyes narrowed as he approached the sack that had the prisoner inside, noticing the bulging saddlebags. He rummaged through them and found dozens of rolled scrolls. As he unrolled one, he saw it was a poster announcing the hiring of mercenaries under Duke Alexander. Intrigued, he gestured for the prisoner to be unpacked and ungagged.
As the prisoner was freed from his prison sack and the gag was removed, he immediately demanded loudly.
"I am a knight of House Rotver! I demand to be treated with the respect my rank deserves!"
Vulkrun raised an eyebrow but saw a glimpse of the man’s emblazoned sigil on his chest, confirming the heraldry of a knight. Although he questions the man’s authenticity of being a knight due to how easily he was captured by just his scouts, he complies. Not wanting to create a diplomatic or bad impression on the nobles of the kingdom he was entering. He ordered the prisoner to be ungagged.
"My apologies for the rough treatment," Vulkrun said smoothly, adopting a conciliatory tone. "I assure you it was merely a precaution. Allow me to make amends."
He ordered his men to fetch drinks and food and offered a new horse to replace the one his men had killed after explaining that Vulkrun’s riders had killed his original horse during the capture. The knight, initially fuming, gradually calmed down as his ego was soothed with the offered hospitality.
"Umm… Ser," Vulkrun began once the knight seemed more at ease, "may I ask your purpose in passing here?”
The knight, after taking a hearty gulp of wine, replied.
"I am on a mission to spread the word that Duke Alexander is hiring mercenaries. He needs all the skilled swords and experienced fighters he can get."
"And who might you be, good sir?" Vulkrun’s interest was piqued.
"I am Ser Alistair of House Rotver," the knight answered, puffing out his chest and then emptying another bottle.
“You must be in great haste to keep riding in the middle of the night,” Vulkrun said, subtly inquiring.
"Yeah. By the way, are you a free company?" the knight asked, glancing around the camp.
"Indeed," Vulkrun replied. "I am Captain Vulkrun of the Goldbrand Company."
The knight’s eyes widened in recognition, and he nearly choked on his drink.
"Goldbrand? The Goldbrand Company?" He fumbled for a moment before unfurling the banner that was planted nearby. The symbol on it matched the insignia description of the Goldbrand Company. A flayed man over the large golden flaming star.
"You’ve heard of us, then," Vulkrun said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Heard of you? Of course! Your company is known far and wide as one of the most formidable and sought-after mercenary companies. My lord’s liege, Duke Alexander, is currently hiring mercenaries and would pay handsomely for your services." The knight then made a religious gesture which was known to be showing respect and giving a short prayer to their god. "I did not expect to run into the renowned Goldbrand company. Maybe the Great Eye is finally guiding my way."
"We try to live up to our name. So, tell me, Ser Alistair, what kind of offer is Duke Alexander making? I know that he is currently fighting for the throne against Count Reimblitz." Vulkrun feigned modesty.
"Duke Alexander is offering a good coin for the services of skilled mercenaries." Ser Alistair replied eagerly. "And from what my lord told me, I can assure you that the Goldbrand would be well-compensated."
"And where would one go to enlist their service under the duke?" Vulkrun asked, leaning forward.
"The nearby city of Ricortia is currently accepting mercenaries for the duke," Sir Alistair answered. "You can make your way there and speak with the Grandmaster of the Hussarian Order."
Vulkrun accepted the scroll from the knight with a nod of thanks, examining it briefly before tucking it into his belt. Then he listened carefully as the knight explained its importance.
"Show that scroll to the gate sentries." the knight said. "And it will help expedite your entry to the city, avoiding petty bureaucracy and bribes."
“Thank you, Ser Knight," Vulkrun said with a smile, handing the knight another mug of wine. The knight took another sip of wine, clearly pleased with himself. Vulkrun's demeanor remained calm and friendly, satisfied with the twist of events. Then, in one swift fluid motion, he unsheathed his short sword and cleanly beheaded the knight. Blood sprayed across the campfire as the headless body collapsed to the ground.
"But we can’t have more competition ser," Vulkrun remarked coldly. "Can’t have too much of that. And we need to be one of the first to apply. Early birds get the best worms, as they say."
The mercenaries around the camp barely flinched. They were already accustomed to their captain’s sudden violence and ruthless but decisive actions along with his cold pragmatism. He wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it. Then he looked down at the decapitated body with a mix of disdain and satisfaction.
He plucked the signet ring from the fingers of the headless knight and tossed it to Tresmer.
"Melt this down," he instructed her. " We don’t need anyone leading his disappearance back to us."
Tresmer nodded after catching the ring and stowing it away for later. He turned to the two riders who had captured the knight.
"Dispose of the body," he ordered the two riders who had captured the knight. "Strip it off all valuables and bury it in the woods. Do the same to the horse you just killed. We don't need any traces left behind."
The two riders quickly set about their grisly task and were about to drag the body into the nearby forest when two of their direwolves suddenly pounced and tore up the headless stump of the knight. Other wolves joined to ravish the corpse.
“It seems our sentries are taking care of the disposal instead.” One of them laughed. Then both of them decided to find the horse and let their wolves enjoy a destrier meat.
"Duke Alexander is desperate." Tresmer popped open another bottle of wine and drank.
"And with Count Royle's gold and silver, we are well-prepared to make a strong impression." Nimea nodded in agreement, grinning at Tresmer.
"Seems we have an opportunity," Freya remarked, a glint of excitement in her eyes.
"And the timing couldn’t be better. We needed a high-ranking noble that could guarantee us a passage or documents to let us start future foreign ventures. This could also bolster our reputation and our coffers." Torus added.
Vulkrun was glad that his lieutenants were on the same mind, then he turned and addressed the rest of his company. His voice booming across the camp.
"Eat well and sleep deeply tonight. We ride at dawn, and we ride fast. Our destination is Ricortia. We will be among the first to apply, and we will demand the best payment."
The men responded with a mix of cheers and grunts, eager for the promise of more gold and the thrill of new contracts. The camp settled down for the night, the mood one of anticipation and readiness.
As Vulkrun stood by the campfire, he looked up at the rising moon, a cold grin spreading across his face. He took out a gold bar from his pocket and held it to his nose, inhaling deeply. Savoring its weight and the faint, metallic scent.
"Ah… Gold," he murmured to himself. "There’s truly nothing like it."