A cold October wind blew its way betwixt age old oaks and elms along a winding, twisting earthen way almost forgotten to time. As the wind blew, it carried torrents of chill rain through creaking branches that seemed to serve no cover at all. A man knelt down amongst the trees, nestled inside the flimsy cover of a bush. Keeping his head down, the man drew his large woolen coat closer about himself, silently cursing at both the fell weather and the purpose for his presence. It was a miserable dreary day, with sheeting rain falling hard enough to soak any man to the bone foolish enough to be caught out in the open with nary a cloak, and a dull gray overcast sky mocking those mere mortals daring to hope for an ounce of warmth. It was no weather for any one man to be out in, let alone an entire band, and yet here they were.
Semi obscured by the swaying branches of old forest sentinels, but whose presence was wholly betrayed by the loud, rhythmic clanking of metal striking against metal, and the incessant pattering of the rain droplets against cold steel, an army marched. A long column of armed men stretched as far as the concealed man could spy from his meager cover, vibrations felt through the earth reverberating with every synchronized step of the mass of marching men. The man had sighted them coming upon his position that morning, a scant few hours after the lightening of the sky, and now even thought it was as late as midday, the seemingly endless column moved on with sign of abating. He scanned the banners as the army marched on. Here was the eagle quartered with bull of house Davian, there were the crossed fern fronds of house Thistlewood, and so on for what must have been dozens of banners.
The enshrouded man’s name was Roland Hill, and he had been waiting there for weeks, camping out of sight, but within earshot of the road a few dozen paces from his current position. He gently ran his fingers over a dull, brass insignia, an eye, on an amulet concealed underneath his cloak. It had been her order that had seen him consigned to lie in wait along this weary road, searching for any trace of an invading army. It was almost laughable, centuries of peace from without, and now, at the time of the Empire’s greatest strength, she suspected an invasion and had posted him on this road, so far from the border in the overgrown wildlands of the Empire’s heart.
The long and timeworn road upon which he now lay concealed, King Hagar’s Way, stretched from the western reaches of the empire to its capital Maegwyn, passing through the cover of several vast forests on its way as it ran its course through the heart of the empire. A relic of ages past built during the far off days of the old country before the advent of the empire, it had served as a major highway servicing several large farming villages that worked to feed the capital.
Presently however, it had long fallen into disuse, the towns it had serviced having been abandoned or swept away from the plague centuries prior. Now they were overgrown with dark trees and vines that had reclaimed town, field, and road indiscriminately, casting the ruins in ill-omened gloom. Now only a few isolated villages remained along the road, such as Melsbrook, the King’s Highway having supplanted the road’s original purpose as main artery from the western reaches to the capital.
Having been made centuries before with no ease of access to the blasting charges that may be found in more modern quarries, the compacted earthen road wound its way leisurely through the forest, giving way for any boulders or age-old sentinels in its path. It was far from a direct route, and its earthen construction meant that in such misbegotten weather, wagon wheels and armored boots alike would struggle to proceed at threat of becoming mucked down. Furthermore, the complete lack of maintenance save for the occasional travelling peddlers or the local lord’s tax collectors had allowed the undergrowth to narrow and constrict the road in many places, making it a uniquely slow and uncomfortable track for any large band of travelers. Only the truly desperate would move in such numbers on such an arduous path.
Roland pondered, frowning as he gazed upon the mass of men. Professional soldiers all, men at arms and knights clad head to toe in plate and mail, halberds, pikes, and longswords all in abundance. These men were personal retinues of each of the noble houses whose banners under which they marched, with not a peasant to be seen. He knew this army well, for each of these houses were sworn bannermen and knights to Edward, the Duke of Brackenweir, and uncle to the Empress.
This army had been assembled as a show of force to conniving local nobility and greedy foreign enemies alike, exhibiting with pride and skill the power of the Duke of Brackenweir. It was a rarity, sighting such a vast and well-equipped force in the Empire. Ever since the current Empress had risen to power, the nobility had been on the decline as she zealously usurped their privileges for her own imperial prerogative. Bit by bit, the noose about the necks of the formerly ascendent aristocracy was systematically drawn tighter. Here and there, isolated groups of nobles protested, resisted, and at times even resorted to all out rebellion, but so gradually did the Empress chip away at their power that those few that did dare to defy her will were swiftly cast down, losing land, title, and life to the very lives of each surviving member of their now fallen houses in the more extreme cases. The remaining houses for the most part were meek and feeble, many of their lands appropriated for the direct control of the crown, their armed retinues either forcefully disbanded or absorbed into the steadily growing imperial army, leaving naught but a handful of professional soldiers to each house for the personal protection of their estates, patrolling their borders, and a scant few for the enforcement of law within their remaining holdings.
Thus, it was rather unusual to sight such a force, not that of the hastily levied peasantry, but a well armed and trained army of professional fighting men. However, since this was the personal command of the Duke of Brackenweir, it was only to be expected. Long before the current Lord Protector had risen to his lofty position as right hand of the Empress, it had been her uncle that was both her advisor and protector, commanding her armies in the field as she vied for the crown against her siblings and their aristocratic puppet masters. Having long since proven his unshakeable loyalty through force of arms and becoming a pillar of the state, the duke and his bannermen were naturally exempted from many of the restrictions that had befallen their erstwhile brethren. The fact that his heavily armed but equally vast domain abutted the kingdom of Aachenwald directly to the west, a land of particularly rugged and often hostile people, was no small boon to the continued safety of the empire.
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However, Roland had never thought to have seen this army on this windy, forgotten road, let alone in this chill weather, where every step would be taxing on both man and horse, and the freezing night with not a twig of dry wood for miles would chill a man to his very bones. Even now, he sighted teams of men pushing wagons whose horses lacked the strength to wrench them free from the sopping muck that the earthen road had devolved into. This army he mused, was far from where it should be, and clearly unprepared for the current weather.
The Duke’s army was supposed to have met with the western legions of the imperial army at the city of Davenport, mere miles from the border with Aachenwald. However here it was, not even in the Duchy, but in the capital region, hundreds of miles from their destination and on an old, forgotten road ill suited to a force of such great size. What reason could there be for them to be here? Roland pondered, his brows furrowing in thought. While there had been a fear of invasion, these men were still clad in unblemished armor, marred and stained only with the dirt and grime of travel, not from the test of combat. They could not be fleeing some greater force either, neither on such an arduous and indirect route, nor without sending word to the imperial legions present in Brackenweir or directly to the Empress.
There remained no doubt in the Roland’s mind as to the ultimate destination of the army as it inexorably trudged onward, no matter its circumstances it could only be travelling to the empire’s capital, there was nothing else of note along this path save the tiny hamlet of Melsbrook in which he lived, posing as a local hunter. The only reason to take this path was secrecy, and no matter the past service of the Duke if he was moving a host into the capital, veiled from the Empress’s eye, it could only mean one thing, treason. Roland’s eyes widened with utter certainty of his assertion as he beheld the next company of men to crest the bend at the end of his field of vision.
They were flamboyantly dressed in all manners of colorful panoply, clad in shining armor over cloth of garish greens, reds, and yellows. Long pikes held aloft on their shoulders, interspersed with large men somehow even more flamboyantly dressed in feathered hats crossed and stitched with bolts of expensive fabrics wielding almost impossibly large greatswords a band of men marched, beneath the brazen banner of a dragon swallowing a lance held aloft by the largest man Roland had ever seen. These were no men of the Empire, with faces rugged and hair wild and unkempt, much longer than the usual trends in the Empire, these could only be men of Aachenwald, and not just any men but of the professional mercenary companies raised by the King of Aachenwald himself.
Black of reputation almost as dark as the contrasting brightness of their garish dress, these mercenary companies were dreaded throughout Aachenwald and beyond. Their infamous reputation for pillage and destruction on par with their unshakeable discipline in combat, for which the King of that tumultuous realm had relied on them extensively for preserving his rule, squandering great quantities of coin in the process. For foreigners at all, let alone such black hearted men to be included in the army of the Duke of Brackenweir confirmed to Roland with certainty that treason was afoot.
Already in the capital region of the empire, the Duke of Brackenweir was mere weeks from being able to attack the capital itself and, if not for the now blessed tumult of rain that had turned the already constrictive road to muck, he and his host of traitorous knights, men at arms, and now black hearted mercenaries may have already reached it. Roland silently crept back to his campsite, heart pounding in his chest. If he was found, he had no doubt as to his final fate, but the Empress must be warned. Reaching the site, under a blessedly secure cover of spread animal hides, he penned a quick note detailing his findings.
The Duchy of Brackenweir has risen in betrayal, twenty thousand knights and men at arms of the empire supported by ten thousand Aachish mercenaries march against Maegwyn through King Hagar’s Way. Delayed by rain, they will arrive within the month.
Attaching the note to his loyal messenger, a pigeon kept well fed and safe from the rain within its cage, Roland sent it off into the gray sky. Slowly and methodically he took apart his camp, rolling up the animal hides and scattering the supple branches that had had supported them, before covering everything in a layer of dead leaves. An army that large and clearly as unprepared for the weather as it was would have foragers, and he could not risk a wayward scout discovering his camp, and therefore that word had gotten out to the Empress lest they proceed even more rapidly to the capital to take it unawares.
Roland’s heart felt pained as he considered the lonely hamlet of Melsbrook. It had been his home for the last ten years, ever since he was inserted there under the cover of being one of the many recently freed serfs following the Empress’s abolishment of serfdom. They were good people, hardy and self sufficient living that they did so far from anything else, and they had taken kindly to a solitary hunter trying to eke out a living on the edge of society, as false as his identity may have been. With the Duke’s army proceeding up the road, there was no chance they would overlook the hamlet, not with their utmost need to maintain secrecy. While Roland longed to warn the inhabitants, get as many of the people that had taken him in and supported him these past weary years out as possible, he couldn’t risk the Duke realizing his plan had been laid bare. With a heavy heart Roland disappeared into the woods, not daring to look back at what had been his home, not even as the black clouds of smoke rose up into the darkening sky.