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Sir Gust De Weer,
Raven of Dawn
A most unfortunate event
Part I
-But now we do-
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CAW
The sound echoed over the fine sands, the cobblestone road lost at places and Gust felt the Desert breeze on his drenched back like a caress, guiding him forward.
CAW
The young crow was heard again and Bugs turned a large black head, to stare towards the bird wagons. The old Raven was the size of a white-headed Eagle, but more compact in its built. Old, because no one knew its real age. Lord Ruud had found it in Blackcrow’s Pillar when he was seven or eight, according to the story his father sometimes liked to recount.
“Bah,” Bugs croaked and shaking his ruffled feathers until they were again a polished coal black added. “Lying old cunt!”
Sir Mael riding next to him grunted and whipped his hooded head around in a disapproving glare.
“The Raven says what it wants priest,” Gust rustled, voice crackling and his throat dry and hurting. A year in the desert had turned his skin a deeper dark, but had washed out all their gear, even turning his grey robes a shade of white. “When it wants it.”
“The Baron might not appreciate the sewer language,” the aged priest of Tyeus cautioned him. Of all the knights ordained to the war God, Sir Mael Bolte was in the minority that had remained a priest first and then a warrior.
A fool can pick up a blade and fight, win even. A ruthless warrior shall always hold advantage enough bravery can counter, to a point. Sir Mael always preached. But it is the peninent man the good Gods shall listen to.
Gust didn’t believe that part of the scripture.
“Robert was a skinny kid that loved singing and the spirits,” Gust replied and watched the raven flying away towards the back of their column. “Afore his father tried to straighten him out with the iron stick. The Baron never regretted it and Robert always found the way around the beatings. Now he’s been a Baron for a day and his first thought is the bottle.”
The latter Gust didn’t particularly enjoy, along the fact he’d found himself outranked, but his old friend had lost a father recently, which perhaps evened it out in the scale or some blasted thing.
Lord Joep was a hard, but just man and Robert wasn’t that much different before the campaign on Eplas had started.
Gust felt things had changed since then though.
“Call for a stop,” Sir Mael advised him, seeing a frowning Gust reminiscing. “That’s the Litching’s Tops far in the distance and further south all that greenery sprouting out of the Desert is not another illusion. These are the banks of the river Shifton and that white glint is Tirifort, I reckon.”
Stones cut from bleached limestone, the locals had told them.
Alike white bricks.
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Gust peeled the plate off his gambeson, the material soaked and then got out of that as well dropping it on a weapon stand next to a wagon. The camp was split in two smaller ones, the First Foot gathering around their tents and the Crows staying near the wagons. Gust had Lode De Jager’s Rangers spread out to spy on Tirifort from a safe distance.
Build around two square towers, the rectangular oblong stone-brick Fort guarded the bridge over the Shifton River, its pale yellow waters flowing into the Azure Gulf hundreds of kilometers away and marking the start of the contained fertile area ending further south at the river Felmond. The old imperial road between the two rivers used to define the border where this mostly green patch of land turned into a harsh desert again. The locals called the massive, mostly barren expanse, the Cameltoe Peninsula.
He had some water from a barrel using a wooden cup and then splashed more on his head and silver-haired muscular chest. Klaas gathered his weapons keeping himself visible whilst Gust allowed the afternoon heat to dry him up slowly. The knight stared at the soldiers gathering around in groups talking about the campaign and mundane stuff. Most had created families in Devil’s Cove and even constructed small huts out of the stone from the nearby quarries. This stone village in the middle of nowhere was slowly growing and it would grow even more with the addition of the civilians Robert had managed to save from the Khan’s clutches.
Build like a military camp, it had straight small roads and clearly defined neighborhoods shaped like squares and eight houses per. Gust had spent the time improving the port, rebuilding the docks and substituting the poor timber of the initial construction with stone. Scaldingport had four heavily escorted cargo ships making the monthly trip to bring in supplies and artisans. Castalor had send a transport as well, along with an official to set up an office.
Devil’s Cove will never grow to be something more, since you can’t really produce much in the desert, but everyone wanting a second port on Eplas’ coast to conduct an operation, would be a fool not to keep it around.
The alternative is to capture Eikenport of course and that’s a whole new bag of fresh snakes.
Captain Gel De Moss, approached his field tent -a side-less shade sprouting out of a wagon more like, without furniture- and paused seeing Gust drying up in the nude.
“Milord,” De Moss started with a grimace. “I can wait.”
Gust snorted and grabbed a pair of pants covered in dust. “You’re annoying me captain,” he rustled feeling his blood boiling. “Ever since the Baron appeared, all you bastards pretend of civility and I hate pretentious idiots!”
“Apologies milord,” De Moss replied paling.
“Snap out of it!” Gust growled. “I don’t want these soft shite infecting the men captain!”
De Moss licked his dark lips slowly and nodded.
“I’ll have them brought up to speed sire,” he said solemnly.
Gust sighed and went to have some more of the stale water.
“We might be fighting on the morrow,” he explained rubbing his face. “A year living under roof and without worrying can make a warrior lose his edge. Most men didn’t train every day captain.”
“Most men have had other tasks milord,” De Moss reminded him.
“Did they train? Were drills being conducted in secret?” Gust repeated dryly.
“Not sufficiently,” the Captain yielded.
“Fix your mess Captain,” Gust warned him. “You’re running out of time.”
“The Crows won’t fail you milord.”
“See they don’t fail themselves and let me worry about my person,” Gust retorted and stared at his angular face on the surface of the barrel. “Why are you here captain?”
“The Barron sent an invite. It’s informal. The war meeting is set for midnight.”
Ah.
“Klaas,” Gust grunted turning around. “Leave the armour and get the new blade from the blacksmith. Apparently I have a social meeting.”
His young squire made to question the need for weapons, but caught himself seeing Gust’s daunting expression and rushed to gather everything up again with a nod.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
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Baron Robert Van Durren sat at a table outside his large tent, flanked by two Issirs and a Lorian. Sir Vegenuur, Sir Lowel Koel and Captain Clement Wellins commanding the force from Sadofort, the large castle now at the hands of Prince Atpa.
Robert himself was a tall, very thin man. Much as everyone that had come out of the desert he sported nasty mementos of the ordeal on his dark face and body. Cuts, burns and wrinkled skin. He stopped talking with his lieutenants and waited for Gust to find a seat, with Sir Mael standing a couple of meters back and to his left at attention.
“Gust,” Robert said smiling, the white beard making him look older than his friend. “I see you come poorly armed for the occasion,” it was a jest and he chuckled at that followed by the others and Gust cracked a smile himself pushing against the back of the small chair for his frame.
“Not much need for another blade,” Gust rustled only half-joking. “You lads barely have meat on yer bones.”
“Hahaha!” Robert guffawed very impressed. “This dear gents was a rare joke by Sir Gust. Not to be taken lightly. Your father my friend has quite the reputation and seems some of his talents finally rubbed off on you. It makes you more human given your appearance.”
“What of it?” Gust rustled not really liking fooling about and accepted a goblet of wine from a manservant.
“People say you should donate your body to science so students can learn muscle anatomy on it, not the head though,” Robert finished chuckling. “That the faculties could do without haha!”
Gust nodded, the knights laughing hard at his expense. Much of it was their way of dealing with loss and the horrors of being cut off from civilization for so long.
His father always said one must learn to take an insult ‘in order to socialize with fools and cunts’.
“I take it back,” Robert decided seeing him scowling. “It’s not the head friend, it’s the god darn expression!”
“We’re about to attack a Fort,” Gust rustled cutting through their chuckling. “I fail to see why I should take it lightly. All this nonsense you know I’m not good at.”
The Baron placed his goblet on the table and stared at him.
“I smashed through those slanted-eyes sons of whores at Queen’s Oasis,” he hissed letting his anger and grief show. “Cut them down at the banks of Yeriden, whilst they were killing my father shooting arrows at him from afar!”
Gust crooked his mouth, but didn’t reply.
“They found more arrows than bones in the pile,” Robert muttered looking at his goblet. “How is this possible?”
“Prince Sahand is cautious, all of them are,” Gust rustled. “Your father was caught in a trap, the way I understand it.”
Robert rubbed his forehead for a moment looking worn out. His white hair were cut short and his gaunt face was slowly recovering even on army rations.
“It’s all pointless you know,” he murmured. “This land is a graveyard.”
“Rob, you’ve kept the army alive for over a year cut off from everyone else,” Gust said stooping nearer over the narrow table. “You and your Father deserve praise for fighting against a bigger force.”
“Ah yes, we fought for the High King,” Robert replied and his knights nodded. “And Raoz. Now the King is all but gone, like the poor Duke and instead of the King’s son on the throne, we might have a pampered lassie, married to a cursed Prince of the Khanate and probably swollen with his child!”
Gust stood back on his seat, Sir Mael shifting on his feet, armour clanking in the darkening camp. He brought a cup to his mouth, had a sip of the cheap wine from Castalor and then put it back down.
“Speak Gust, I can hear ye seething,” Robert taunted him, looking like he did when they were sparring in their early teens.
Robert still carried a broken nose from those days.
As his father had put it eloquently many years ago.
‘Hahaha! It’s a great fucking fortune for me and for your line, yer crying turd went down immediately Baron Joep!’
“The heir is very young,” Gust finally said grinding his teeth. And of questionable stock. “He might not make it to his first birthday.”
“The Gods shall provide,” Robert replied with a grimace.
“The Gods didn’t provide for your father,” Gust countered. “Or you. Had I sat on my arse at Devil’s Cove, you would have continued for Tirifort immediately and died in the desert.”
“You saved us,” Robert agreed. “I would’ve done the same. You wanted to march south and I indulged you. Other than sexual favors, what else did you expect old friend?”
Sir Mael grunted.
“There is an empty seat Sir Bolte,” the Baron said looking at him. “You don’t have to stand.”
“I can see more of the camp,” the aged knight replied solemnly. “Whilst standing.”
“Good grief,” Robert snorted and scratched his beard staring at the dark sky above them exasperated. “At some point this act stops being funny Sir Mael.”
It was never funny, Gust thought. Nor is it an act.
I was always letting you think it was Rob.
“You didn’t answer my query,” Gust said.
“I’m trying to help you,” Robert replied with a grimace. “Because I know you. I know your father and how he thinks. There is only the one boat to stand on Gust. Elsanne mustn’t take the throne, even if the young heir perishes.”
“That’s not the law.”
“Where’s her care of laws?” Robert sighed seeing him narrowing his eyes. “Ah, you were always the fool around her,” he finally said and Gust flinched. “Everyone knew you fancied the Princess. What was that she called you in that ball? The smelling boar knight, or was it a rude butcher? I bet you were expecting a tearful thank you, well that didn’t turn out well for you.”
Gust grunted and made to stand up, his thighs hitting the table rattling it and spilling some of the wine off the other men goblets.
“You’ll take insult from me, whilst forgiving her?” Robert continued and Gust shifted on his seat sweating and trying to control himself.
“My Lord,” Sir Mael said, his hand on the pommel of his sword. “We are at dinner.”
Outnumbered was his meaning.
“Take your man’s advice my friend,” Robert continued. “And mine. A selfish creature willing to move against her brother isn’t worth the trouble. Look what she did to the realm. My father’s blood is on her hands!”
“That wasn’t her doing Robert,” Gust hissed through his teeth. “Your hatred is blinding you.”
“Sleeping with the enemy whilst her kin is getting slain isn’t?”
“That was the blasted King’s decision!” Gust roared, his heart beating wild.
“A Cofol is having the reins of this horse Gust,” the Baron reminded him. “It doesn’t matter. In your heart you know she can’t be allowed to win this race.”
An angry idiot makes a fool of himself, his father always said. But it’s the insulted buffoon rushing to defend a maiden’s honor that gets hanged by his entrails while fouling himself for all to see.
“The orders are to return her to Kaltha,” Gust reminded him with difficulty, his head hurting and grabbed the table with both hands not to do anything rash.
“Of course. We've read the same scroll,” the Baron replied smiling thinly. “Sir Vegenuur?”
“The High Regent ordered the Princess found and brought back,” the knight readily droned and Gust nodded. He stood up letting go of the table and wiped the sweat off his face.
“I don’t have much of an appetite,” he said and Robert nodded in his turn in understanding.
Gust turned around and made to walk towards the expecting Sir Mael, but the Baron was heard again behind his back so he paused momentarily to listen to him.
“Anything else on the scroll Sir Vegenuur?” Robert asked casually.
Uh?
The knight cleared his throat once afore adding. “Well, not really sire. Just that we should bring her back to Caspo O’ Bor posthaste, barring some unfortunate event.”
Gust didn't like the sound of that at all.
What in all hells is a blasted unfortunate event?
And we’re supposed to bring her to Scaldingport!
CAW
The crow’s sudden call stopped Gust from turning around and ask for an explanation. That and the look on Sir Mael's face. The loyal hand followed after him as they walked outside the allied camp and headed towards their wagons. A seething Gust glanced at the silent knight walking beside him when they were out of ear shot.
“Was there?” He asked unsure, his mouth not working.
“Not on the High Regent’s scroll I saw, the one you’ve read yourself,” the knight replied.
This is double talk, Gust thought frustrated and glared at the loyal hand. Sir Mael snorted and crooked his mouth looking about them.
“There was a second missive for the Baron,” he finally replied. “We couldn’t break the seal and read it without getting everyone suspicious, or insulting them. Your father would have done it of course without a second thought.”
“I’m not my father Sir Mael,” Gust grunted.
“Hence why we didn’t learn about it sooner,” the aged knight retorted leaving it vague whether it was a good, or a bad thing, just as a night patrol approached them and forced both men to walk towards their camp.
But now we do was Sir Mael’s meaning.
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read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms
& https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/47919/lure-o-war-the-old-realms
Scribblehub https://www.scribblehub.com/series/542002/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms/
& https://www.scribblehub.com/series/547709/the-old-realms/