Marches of Westlund

Western Plains

Bringing his horse to a full gallop, Marquess Henry Ashford led his men in a charge. Bursting from their mage’s screening, they rode directly into the path of the enemy. A rise in the plains gave them the chance to disappear from sight, and allowed their Core mage to create a long, thin barrier using Mental magic. Effectively hiding their movements from the Drakovian raiding party.

Upon cresting the hill, Henry saw the opportunity and moved his men into formation as quickly as he could. He held the soldiers steady and waited for the mage’s signal that her illusion was about to drop. She’d warned him it would not last long, and he just had to hope the Drakovians would get close enough that he and his patrol could catch them in a charge before blowing their horses.

They were too far away to see the surprise on the enemy's face when they appeared out of thin air, heading right toward the Drakovians with their weapons drawn. Henry still pictured it in his mind as their eyes widened, their signal horn sputtering as it called a retreat.

It’s going to be close, he thought. The enemy was already wheeling around.

Lifting his sword overhead, he yelled, “For Rivenna!” Urging his horse onward with another burst of speed.

Ffft.

Ffft, ffft. ffft.

One of the qualities that made the Horsemen of Drakovia so dangerous was the ability to stay mobile and still inflict damage on their enemy. The sound of arrows flying past set Henry’s hair on end. He ducked behind his shield and leaned low, trying to make himself as small as possible. Doing his best to stay in the saddle while his horse thundered through the long grass that hid uneven ground. Arrows whipped past him, and Henry could hear the screams of men and horses as they found their targets.

The waiting was the worst part. In moments like this, it was up to the stars who lived and who died. There was nothing any of them could do to change their fates.

It took what felt like hours, but could have only been ten to twenty seconds for Henry to clear the killing field and make it within striking distance of the enemy. The Drakovian struggled to case his bow and draw the sword tied to his horse. His decision to try to do both at once would be the last mistake he ever made. Henry’s sword stabbed out, catching the man low in the back, and punching through and out the other side. The strike likely severed the spine, but with a twist of the sword. Henry ensured the man would bleed out, regardless. He left his enemy to his fate, already slashing at his next target.

This Drakovian was better prepared, having already drawn his curved blade. The two met, weapons clashing off shields, and their horses doing their best to shoulder each other aside. Henry leaned back in the saddle, letting his attacker’s slash go wide. Lunging forward in an ugly, but efficient chop that Henry had perfected over the years, took the man's sword-hand off at the wrist. His blade hitting bone with a hollow tock sound. The Drakovian screamed, and grasped at his severed hand where blood spurt from the stump in long arcs.. Henry showed no mercy, and his follow-up strike split the man’s face in two. Blood and brains bursting from around the sharp edge as it split fragile human flesh.

Henry lost all sense of self, and his world turned into a dance of metal and death. Just as it always had during battle. The pained screams of man and beast became the backdrop and accompanying arrangement. The ringing of steel on steel was the music that carried him through the beat of each bloody exchange and from one moment to the next.

It was a short and savage encounter. The Drakovians who managed to stay clear of the Rivennan charge veered wide, choosing to make their escape instead of fighting. Those either too slow or unlucky enough to be chased down and caught were killed. A short time later, Henry walked the battlefield with his men, Offering aid where they could, and granting mercy to those beyond saving by sending them to the stars. Surveying the field, his years of experience told Henry that most of their casualties were a result of crossing the archer’s killing field.

Five or six of our own lost. Still, we managed to kill nearly twice as many of them as they did us.

This was the third raiding party Henry’s men had encountered in as many months. The first was nearly a total loss, with only two men making it back from the 20 man patrol. The second had fared better, but it had still lost nearly half its number while inflicting the same on the raiders. After the second attack, Henry decided that he needed to see for himself what was going on. Choosing to join as many of the patrols as he could, having completed several without incident already. He’d gotten lucky when he decided to request a member of the Mage Core join them on today’s patrol. Her Gift had saved lives, maybe even his own.

When they finished scouring the battlefield for their wounded, and the men finished looting their spoils, the patrol sergeant approached Henry and nodded his head in respect to the man. A change Henry had made early on in his time as the Lord Marshal was to ban all forms of courtly pomp while on the battlefield. There was no better target for an archer than a noble’s ass when bowing to their superior.

“My Lord, we are ready to return to town, if you are.”

With one last look at the battle's aftermath, Henry gave the soldier a once over before asking, “Sergeant, how long have you been running patrols?”

Considering the question, the man shifted his head from side to side. “Nearly eight years, my Lord.”

Henry nodded, “And in those eight years, do you ever remember seeing Drakovians looking this—wretched?”

He couldn’t help but notice while walking through the dead, just how underfed and thin the Drakovians looked. Their equipment, usually well taken care of, appeared worn. And their leathers, normally made of a single piece, were a patchwork of repairs.

“No… my Lord. I cannot say that I have. This lot does look a bit mangy, now that you mention it.” The sergeant said, the words coming slowly as he worked through his own thoughts.

Henry sighed. “I was worried you would say that.” Shoving his helmet back atop his head. He took off a gore-soaked glove and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Does that mean something, my Lord?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, it does. Most don’t know this, but the Marquesses of the Western Marches have always kept detailed journals going back as long as the title itself. I’ve read many of them, and something like this seems to occur every couple of decades. If I’m right, then the Drakovians have chosen a new Warlord, which only means one thing for us—war.”

*****

Capital City of Gremelda

Royal Palace

The realization that a season’s time was not enough for the taint of his last visit to fade came as Henry walked into the main audience hall of the palace. In a show of petty defiance, his petition to see the king was granted, but instead of it taking place in one of the private audience rooms or even the King’s Council Chambers. The king had chosen to grant his request here, in front of all who could attend.

For his part, Henry did not mind the extra ears. They would help spread the news across the realm, serving him and his purpose, regardless of the king’s reaction to the news.

Court had already been in session when Henry was called forward. It was a slight in its own right, making a man of his rank wait to be heard. Stopping before the king, he knelt.

You can’t even see the scorch marks from where they died. Freddy likely had a mage reform the floor to hide his shame. Henry thought as stomach acid burned the back of his throat.

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“Welcome, Marquess Ashford, and be recognized by your Liege, King Frederick the Grand and his Court.” Cried the herald.

Rising to his feet, Henry surveyed the throne where the King and Queen sat. Bowing his head, he began to speak. “Thank you, your Majesties, for granting me an audience today. I have come on a matter of dire concern.”

“It was less than a year ago that you rejected our request of taking back the title of Lord Marshal in service to the Realm… And now, you come to us asking for help? What could be so dire that it brought you crawling back?” The King asked, his sense of satisfaction nearly tangible.

“Yes, sire, I denied your request. For the same reason, I would still do so today. I am no longer able to fulfill the role to the best of my abilities,” Henry stated, keeping his voice level and expression calm. His words still managed to set the audience a blaze with whispers over what they could mean.

“Silence,” ordered the king, unhappy to have his barbs deflected so easily. “What is this dire matter you bring before your King?” He asked.

“The Western Plains are in a frenzy, your majesty. Drakovian raids have tripled in frequency. With attacks pushing deeper into our boarders than they have in decades. They are raping, pillaging, and enslaving the people from our farms and villages as we speak.”

The king raised a brow, and Henry prepared himself for another cutting remark.

“Can you not defend your own lands, Marquess? How is this different from any other year the Drakovians decide to test our borders?”

Keeping his expression neutral. The former Lord Marshal replied, “Measures have been taken to secure the Western Marshes, your majesty. If I thought this was just another year’s raids, the men I have called up would be enough. If not, my neighboring Lords and Ladies would answer my call for aid.” Pausing, Henry met and held the king’s gaze. “No, your majesty. I am here today to warn the Crown and the Realm. I believe a new Warlord has risen in the West, and I believe he brings war to Rivenna.”

*****

“Are you mad! ” The king hissed, pacing up and down the council room where he’d ordered Henry to attend him after his announcement, and runners raced throughout the palace to gather the council for an emergency meeting.

The Queen entered the room a moment later. She’d remained behind to settle the court in its upheaval. Glaring at Henry, she admonished, “The court’s finest jester could not have handled that better. Could you not have asked to discuss this in private, Henry?”

The man in question continued to stare at the wall, refusing to look at the king, “I did… your majesty.”

The queen frowned, put the pieces together, and turned her glare on her husband as his face turned an interesting shade of red.

Fifteen minutes passed before the seats surrounding the council table were filled. When the Minister of the Interior arrived, Henry had to physically restrain himself. Gripping one hand with the other behind his back to stop himself from drawing his belt knife and attacking.

“Sit down, Henry. Lord Marshal or not, I don’t want to stare up at you this entire meeting.” Ordered the king as he sat back in his own chair.

Reluctantly, Henry lowered himself into his old seat and couldn’t help but feel like it was a mistake.

“For those of you who were not in the main audience hall for Court. Marquess Ashford announced to those present that he believes a new Warlord has risen in the West, and that we should prepare for battle.” The king explained to the council.

Several of the council traded looks, but Henry could tell that none of them were too surprised by the news.

“We knew it would happen, your majesty. We did a poor job of hiding our losses, and the Marriage Edict only highlighted our long-term problem. It would seem that the Drakovians have taken notice and now seek to take advantage with this Warlord.” Stated Countess Isla, the Minister of the Exterior.

Henry fought back the urge to smile at the slight dig towards her counterpart in the Interior.

The king rubbed the bridge of his nose, asking, “Can we afford a war with the Drakovians?”

“We can’t afford not too, your majesty,” the Minister of Coin answered. “It is where most of the wheat we use throughout the kingdom is grown, and where our best livestock graze.”

“If the Drakovians truly breach our western border, it would open up the rest of the kingdom to their savagery. We would risk losing much more than just wheat and livestock, your Majesty,” Duke Wyndham said, jumping into the discussion.

Taking the opportunity while everyone else’s eyes pointed in the same direction. Henry surveyed the Duke. A tall man. Near Julian’s age if he was still alive. Alistair looked several years younger than the forty summers he knew the man to be. A mage, and according to rumor, one of the first to take up a second and even third wife after the new edicts went into effect. Earning himself a new moniker, The Horny Duke.

The kings next question brought Henry’s focus back to the discussion.

“How will the nobility react to a Call to Arms?” The question, directed to the Peerage Speaker, was met with hemming and hawing.

“That is tough to say, your majesty. Some will be for it, believing their men are getting fat and need to be reminded why they owe fealty to their lords. Others will oppose it, stating a lack of trained men and supplies.”

The king, hearing the answer for what it was, cut to the heart of the matter. “Then you had better do your part to get them all on the same page. Regardless of what they want. If the Marquess is correct, war is approaching.”

Standing up from the table, he looked at each of his council members and said, “Send word that the Crown is putting out an official Call to Arms. Each member of the Peerage is expected to supply their required Due Service in a month’s time. I want men assembled and marching toward the western border within two. The General Levy will follow with all haste. Now, see to your duties.”

With a clear dismissal, the Council rose, bowing collectively to the King and Queen before making their exit.

Henry attempted to follow suit, when the king's voice cut across the sound of shuffling feet.

“Marquess Ashford, if you would stay for a moment. There is still one item we need to discuss.”

He could not tell what it was in the man’s voice or maybe his tone. That set his hair on end, but Henry felt his hackles begin to rise. He turned back toward the king and queen, stepping to the side while the council filtered out. Henry waited as the Minister of Coin exited the room, already dreading whatever conversation was about to take place.

“If there is to be war, the kingdom of Rivenna will need a Lord Marshal to fight it,” the king said slowly, staring at Henry like a hawk would a mouse.

“Does the realm not have a new Lord Marshal, your majesty? I heard that Count Rageborn was appointed to the position.”

The king scoffed, “Rageborn, more like pussyborn. He was too busy wetting his wick with anyone that wanted a gifted child to actually lead anything. He has been removed.”

Henry felt his cheeks redden at the comment but pushed through his embarrassment, hoping to deny what he could feel coming, coiling around him like a snake. “I am sorry to hear of the matter your majesty, I am sure someone new can be found.”

Nodding, the king admitted, words dripping with contempt, “O, worry not, Henry. We have someone for the position, but I’m afraid it is not someone new. No… It is you who will be taking back up the mantle of the Lord Marshal. You will lead our Kingdom’s army and defeat those horse fucking savages.”

Henry took a step back at the venom carried in the king’s words.

“But, Sire, I have told you why I—”

The king shot to his feet and raised a hand, silencing Henry as he felt the king’s Gift wrap around his throat, cutting off his ability to breathe. “Silence!” He hissed. “You were supposed to come to me today and ask to be Lord Marshal, to defend our kingdom once more. You were supposed to eat some crow and take a bit of a proverbial lashing.”

Henry was physically dragged forward until he was face to face with the king. His knees starting to grow weak, struggling to hold his weight as he ran out of air. “But no! You have dared to defy your King! I let you have your way because of the mistake I made killing your son. I allowed you your pride when you threw my offer to become Lord Marshal back in my face, when it was offered. No, Henry, my Lord Marshal, your time to grieve is over. You will do as commanded, or I will call that grandson you love so much into service, and I will send him at the heart of the enemy, time and time again, until he either dies or he kills them all. Do I make myself clear?”