Marches of Westlund
Western Plains
One Year Later
Q reached down, absentmindedly patting the young gelding named Orion. It hadn’t taken long riding across the great open fields of the Western Plains for Q to realize that he’d inherited his grandfather’s love of horses. It made him feel small in a way that he’d never experienced. There was something about being able to ride for miles without seeing a discernible difference between where you’ve been and where you are going. It had a way of grounding the young man.
He was currently doing a ride-along with a contingent of the Marquess’ men, 20 in total, on a patrol of the border. His current instructor, a retired calvary officer by the name of Credence Rodgers, was with him in addition to his personal guard, three men hand picked from the Marquess’s own guard and headed by Garrick. Whom had requested to stay on after his initial training contract ended.
The need for a guard surprised Q when he was first informed. His request to know why he was training if he needed someone else to protect him had not go over well. A slap to the back of the head shut him up and made him take the appointment seriously. With the changes outlined in what had become know as the “horny mages edict”, a lot had changed in a short amount of time. It hadn’t taken long before people realized the realm was in trouble, and fear had brought out the worst in them.
Q was listening to Credence as he detailed why a specific cavalry charge had failed due to the unit’s composition when they heard it. A Drakovian horn.
Swearing, the sergeant stood in his stirrups, squinting as he peered across the plains. Checking the angle of the sun, he shook his head. Turning to the men behind him, he shouted, “Small raiding party ahead of us, 30-40 strong. Go! Move it!”
The next several hours were an odd mix of fear, anticipation, frayed nerves, and the odd desire for something to happen. Q stayed quiet, listening to the men around him as they cantered, slowed to a trot, and then cantered again. He’d picked up on details of the pursuit and what to expect. Their detachment was hauling ass to the closest army outpost. Unfortunately, they’d never make it there in time. They were pushing their horses hard while the Drakovians had a string of remounts available to them. At one point, the sergeant had dropped back and suggested that Q’s party may want to break off from the patrol and ride ahead. The Marquess’s men would ensure Q made it out safely.
The stoney silence his suggestion received was one part awkward, and two parts relieved for the extra manpower.
An hour later and their horses were nearly blown. Credence leaned over and whispered to Q, “He’s about to call it. He’ll slow the horses down so they can catch their breath, and turn us around for a final charge.”
It was a frustrating point that the Rivennan Army struggled to overcome the mobility of mounted Drakovians. Their horses were bred for long endurance riding, and the Drakovians' way of fighting lent itself to their near constant movement. Able to shoot from the saddle, they kept their enemies at a distance while being charged. Should they decide to close the distance, they could switch to their curved sabers and small shields. Their ability to ride with just their legs meant you were fighting them at a disadvantage if you were forced to hold your reins and only had one arm truly free to fight.
Proving Credence’s earlier statement was almost correct. The sergeant pointed from up ahead into the distance and yelled, his voice carrying to the men behind him. “We aren’t going to make Edgemont! We’re stopping at the next stand of cover. The trees will shield us from their arrows, and we stand a better chance of survival if we can get them off their horses and on foot.”
Putting action to orders, the patrol altered course, now aiming toward a green dot, just visible in the distance. The sergeant still had them slow their pace, which confused Q. If we aren’t going to make a charge, why rest the horses? Turning towards Credence beside him, Q shouted his question.
“So they are fresh after the battle or if an opportunity to escape comes up, a man can take it.”
Garrick must have heard them because he turned and called , “My lord, when we get off the horses, I want you to go in to cover immediately. Find the best spot to block an arrow and hunker down.” His horse shifted out of line around an unseen obstacle. Forcing him to bring it back into formation before continuing, “We will join you once the horses are secured.”
Q bristled at the idea of hiding, but Garrick’s next words calmed him down. “There is nothing brave about making yourself an easy target. Dead is dead, my lord. You are smaller and can fit into places the rest of us cannot. Don’t worry, you will have every opportunity to fight once they’ve dismounted and are on foot.” The last was said with a wince, as if the thought of it brought him physical pain.
When the patrol reached the stand of trees, Q discovered that it was actually a large pond blocked by the tree trunks surrounding it. The sergeant was sure to stop the horses from drinking directly from the pond. If left to their own devices, they ran the risk of drinking too much, too quickly, and making themselves sick. Instead, the men watered the horses from their water skins, refilling them as necessary.
They had ten to fifteen minutes before the enemy was likely to arrive. Following Garrick’s directions, Q searched through the trees for somewhere only he would fit. His eyes locked on where a tree had fallen, and its crown had tangled with the one next to it, keeping it suspended. Its angle created a pocket where the roots were exposed, leaving a void beneath. Q crawled in, and the hard roots dug into his side, right where his armor left him unprotected.
A few moments later, Garrick found him and nodded his approval. “We will be nearby. I will call out when they approach. Whatever happens… it has been an honor, my lord.”
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His declaration descending on Q like a hawk swooping in on its prey. This is real. We could all die here.
He wasn’t sure exactly how long they waited. The Drakovian horn calls the only way he could tell the passage of time. Each one closer than the last. Finally, they stopped altogether and silence reigned. Q held his breath while waiting for the next, but it never came. A false sense of calm filled the air, his roiling stomach and anxiety the only disturbance.
“Take cover!”
Thunk!
Thunk, thunk, thunk!
The sounds of arrows impacting heavy wood echoed amongst the trees, as did the screams of the unlucky. The barrage lasted for several minutes, stopping only when no more screams rang out.
From nearby, he heard Garrick’s voice, “Prepare yourself, my Lord. They will dismount now.”
The plan outlined by the sergeant was to weather the enemy’s arrows until they decided firing more would be a waste. Then they would wait until the Dakovians dismounted their horses. If the sergeant believed there was an opportunity to strike while they formed up, he would call the men to charge.
Q gripped his sword and buckler tightly as his breath became labored. This would be his first taste of combat. He would never admit to feeling what he knew to be childish excitement, but he wanted to test himself. To discover if all the hard work he’d put in over the years would be proven justified here today.
Garrick’s command of, “Now, my lord!" Was cut off by the sergeant yelling, “Attack!”"
With his heart thundering like that of a galloping horse. Q forced himself out from beneath the tree roots, following his fellow Rivennans as they sprinted through the trees. When they broke out into the open plains, Q had his first, up close look at someone from another kingdom.
The Drakovian’s appearance was a surprise to Q. He’d heard them described by the soldiers, but seeing them in-person made it real for him. Most looked to be of middling height, fit, and sun-tanned. The boiled leather armor they wore, nearly a match for their exposed skin. Their hair was dark, with the sides of their head shaved, and the top left long and braided in a horse-tail down their backs. Most of them carried shields and the curved swords he’d heard so much about, though a few carried shortened spears.
The enemy leader had made a mistake when he’d chosen to dismount so close to where they’d bedded down. It left them vulnerable, and out of place. When the patrol burst from cover, charging their unorganized mass. The loud roar of the men and the banging of sword on shields managed to spook the horses. Adding to the confusion and creating further chaos. Garrick had taken a position on Q’s right to protect his weak side, while Credence took his left. The four guards forming up in a loose square around the three men as they closed with the Drakovians.
The next few minutes were the longest of Q’s short life. Time lost all sense of perspective and would later be a memory of broken fragments and sensations. The initial impact saw Q bouncing off the patrolman in front of him when he crashed to a halt, colliding with an enemy shield. Striking out at the back of a man’s knee, Q’s blade cut deeply into the man’s flesh. He watched as his target cried in pain, still managing a thrust at Garrick with his spear as he fell. The next instant, Q felt the jarring impact of incorrectly blocking an overhead strike with his buckler. Forgetting to parry as he was trained, raw instinct taking over in the heat of battle with the lone goal of surviving the mayhem.
Q fought, slashing and stabbing where he saw openings, only to be shoved aside as those fighting beside him barreled by in a frenzy. Moving with the impact, Q ducked under a curved blade as it tried to remove his head. Popping up faster than his attacker could react. He stabbed up and underneath the man’s chin. Q watched as bloody foam exploded from the man’s mouth, his tongue falling to the dirt with his scream.
He froze at the sight before him, feeling blood and spittle running down his cheek. Q was too out of it to notice the Drakovian stalking forward, ready to take advantage of his shock. The man was blocked by one of Q’s guardsmen. Their clash was brief, the Drakovian proving to be a much better fighter. Seeing his man run through broke Q of his paralysis and he charged forward. Reaching the man far quicker than his opponent was prepared for. He blocked Q’s initial slash, but was already out of position, and unable to avoid the boss of Q’s buckler as it crushed his orbital bone.
After that, Q no longer hesitated. He worked the immediate area around him. Aiding those he could and avenging them when he couldn’t. It continued for an unknown amount of time. Moments of clarity interspersed with skips in time that he would struggle to recall in the days to come. Until suddenly, it was over. There were no more enemies within sword reach. Broken from his trance, Q surveyed the bloody and torn up ground around him.
Only then did he realize that the men of the surviving patrol were staring at him. Q looked from face to face in confusion, seeing nothing but shock and astonishment. Until his eyes met Garrick’s.
The connection seemed to shock the man into action. Turning around, he roared, “You saw NOTHING, do you understand? We were attacked, the enemy Commander fucked up, and we took advantage of it. You all fought bravely, with courage and valor. You will be paid handsomely for your service to the Marquess, and you will never speak of what you saw today as repayment. Do I make myself clear?”
The shock turned to looks of understanding as the survivors of the battle nodded their heads in agreement.
Garrick turned back to Q and motioned him to move away from the men while they combed over the battlefield, finishing off any enemy still alive, and putting any of their own too far gone out of their misery.
Q’s brain finally noticed the grime and gore covering him. His armor was stained crimson with bits of flesh and hair stuck in the metal rings. He had just enough time to lift his helmet before he vomited. His stomach revolted several more times before he managed to get himself back under control.
A canteen was dangled just in front of Q’s face. Looking up, he saw Garrick standing over him with a knowing look in his eyes. “The first time is always the hardest. There is no shame in being sick over it, and none of the lads will comment on a few tears. We’ve all gone through it before.”
Nodding, Q changed the subject. “Why did you do that, threatening the men?”
The man let out a hiss from between his teeth.
“Do you not realize what you’ve done, my lord?” When Garrick’s question was only met with confusion, he rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache starting.
“My lord, you were using magic. Q—you are Gifted.”