Chapter 14

Day Zero – Afternoon

A caravan of no fewer than fifty carts and carriages was making its way east, further away from the Astrias river meandering north. At the helm was the Gudena family, chosen by the artisans and merchants to be in charge of this venture. The waterway was, and remained, the western border between Albion and Galázion, as neither side could strike a decisive victory. Two mercenaries were hired to ride at the front and rear respectively. Dornhall Gudena and his wife Rohanna led the way in freezing temperatures. The first snow had powdered the green and brown ground, at the edge of a forest between the barren fields.

“And, what’s next?” Rohanna asked her husband, huddling her arms around her chest and rubbing them. She was a fine woman at the beginning of her thirties, though the last year had made her age faster. The crow’s feet did not distract from the regal brooch that adorned her bright puff coif. Neither did the muddy stains at the hemlines of Rohanna’s front-laced red dress.. It still carried the dignity of valuable fabrics. “Back north, beg your father to rehire you?” But it was her posture that really sold it.

Dornhall crouched over, reins in hand, and sighed aloud. All markers of his descent were gone, the sense of class his wife clung to was all but lost. Scuffed by the harsh reality he chose, Dornhall’s well made boots were riddled with holes. A decorated, long gown had been peppered with specks of the campaign trail. Even his hat was defeathered and held barely onto his mutton chops.

“We have plenty barley and millet left,” said Dornhall, raising his eyes again. The back of the hired muscle in front of them, on a wobbly horse’s ass, kept his mind on track. “We have more than thirty thaler left, solid gold to invest. If we make it to Freybern, across the bridge–” He halted and straightened his posture to match that of his wife. “Try our luck there. I was born a Fish, not a Kraken. Let’s swim up that river… they’ll see.”

Young Torhelm laid on his back inside the merchant’s carriage, surrounded by their belongings. Nose deep into his favorite book, ‘Little Squirt of a Squire’, he couldn’t care less about the heated debate of his parents. He had the time of his life. A real knight had bargained a deal with his father, to cater their regiment. The many new, and fun, words he learned from the children of the camp followers couldn’t be used around his mother. Torhelm couldn’t decide which was the best part since they left Hohendam. All the sharp weapons of the soldiers he saw, or the bare-chested women that strolled around the camp?

A real fight, Torhelm did not see. Too tight was the schedule Rohanna had set for her son. Three candles of reading, three for his letters and three for his numbers. But they even found him a mage to chronicle the path to join an academy of the high arts. If Dornhall could get a foot into that door for his son and make enough coin… maybe grandfather would put a good word in at home. Damned, would Torhelm enjoy this. To learn how to chant for war.

“By Father Sun, his daughters and all Stars, Dornhall–” Rohanna threw her arms up and slapped the coach box. “We have to acquire a market stance and set it up. On short notice. Do your thirty-something thaler include the bribe for a magistrate? Because I bet you, we–”

“Quit your yapping, woman!” Her husband also slapped the coach box, nearly losing the reins. “I know very well how this works. We’ll decide when we’re there,” said Dornhall and felt the knives from his wife’s eyes. He didn’t dare to look at her, but got glimpses of her crossed arms, puckered lips and puffed up cheeks. Whole breaths went by, before he spoke again. “Alright, that was uncalled for–” He looked at her, put one hand on her knee and stroked it gently. “See, I am as stressed as you.”

“Do not interrupt me again,” said Rohanna and loosened up. She leaned to the side and looked up and down the caravan. “I might be your wife and bound to you by an oath to the Stars, but you are spending my brother’s coin. I had your back when nobody else did.”

“Mother?” A childish voice called out from inside the wagon. “I am cold. Where are the cloaks?”

Rohanna turned around and knelt on the coach box. Through a small window she looked at her son, Torhelm. “Sweetheart, they’re hanging just over there. Above the sleeping mats,” she said and pointed inside. “You know what? You are right, it is cold. Please give me our cloaks too, for me and your father.”

“If only that High General wouldn’t have let the campaign drag into winter,” grumbled Dornhall. His wife laid the woolen cloak around his neck and sealed it tight with a bronze fibula, before doing the same for herself. “Who fights a war in winter.”

“Typical for an Upper Albinian.” Rohanna rubbed her hands and breathed hot air into them. “We shouldn’t speak like this about His Highness, but the fool behaviors so much like the Rooster he is.”

“I think he’s a Bull,” corrected Dornhall, eyes on the road. “Stubborn arse.”

“As I said, born under foolish Stars.”

The leader of the merchant trail raised an eyebrow and glimpsed at his wife. “You’re a Bull.”

“And should I lead an army? The King picked the Margrave, why–”

“Yes, why!” Dornhall’s scream got the attention of the mercenary for a moment, who had been looking around quite a bit. “General Airich and General Marwig are here too, the King has never favored a prince over experience.”

“You did it again!” The woman slapped her husband on the knee, making him kick the coach box out of reflex. “One more time and I’ll push you off.”

“I know, I know!” He stubbed his toe and wheezed in pain. “I just don’t get it. Marwig has not lost a single battle in this war and Airich is…” Tightening the grip of the reins in anger, Dornhall thought about a long list of things to say. “Well, Airich. He outmaneuvered Mur ad-Din and the Galázians respect him too. I thought the King and him were even friends.”

“What do we know,” said Rohanna and sighed. “The Margrave is highest of status and it is not upon us to question His Majesty, the High King–” She turned around and spoke into the window behind her. “Are you feeling warm yet, sweetheart?”

“Yes, mother,” replied Torhelm, preoccupied with his book.

“How are the numbers going?” She asked as inquisitive as ever.

“They are also warm,” giggled the boy.

Rohanna tuned into her son’s giggle and looked at her husband in glee. “I tell you, he will outwit your father and my brother in no time. We have to get him into a university and then he’ll make big guild coin with his allure and smarts.”

His father also smiled and nodded along. “We cannot call ourselves Gudena and son, but I’ll think of something even better until then,” he said. “You’ll make us all proud, will you Torhelm?”

“Yes, father,” said the boy and flipped a page. He had reached his favorite part, when the squire obtained his first sword. Soon he would…

“Hooo!” The lightly armored man in front of them came to a halt, fist raised. He steered his horse around and rode back the trail. “Halt! Halt!” he screamed. “Something is wrong. There’s a roadblock ahead.” With a drawn arming sword, the mercenary moved up to Dornhall.

“What is it? Bandits or storm damage? The sun will set soon, I don’t want to sleep outside again,” said Dornhall and sighed frustrated.

“Women and children inside!” The armed man on horseback ignored his employer’s plight and made himself heard all over the road. “Men, arm up! Pass the order down the line!”

A situation like this had been the exact reason why the merchant leader got himself some muscle. It was not unheard of that either winners and losers of a war were filled with soldiers who suddenly found themselves unemployed. Unemployed, but still armed to the teeth. Therefore, the merchants under Dornhall’s lead did as ordered and repeated the fateful words wagon to wagon. None of the staff, aides nor passengers were licensed to carry weapons of war. So Torhelm’s father was forced to grab the lumber axe from under his seat. He also checked on the precious dagger at his belt, a last line of defense.

Rohanna pulled up her dress, jumped down onto the road and rushed around the carriage. She faced her son inside, breath drumming down her chest and packed away his books and mathematics. “Forget that and come to me,” she said with open arms. The boy stood up and tried to peek out the window before his mother pulled him into a tight hug. “And stay away from the windows,” she whispered into his ear.

For a brief moment, Torhelm had seen what was about to happen. From the treeline next to the trail, shadowy figures scurried around.

“Crossbows!” yelled the grizzled veteran. “Take cover behind the wagons!”

Wrapped in his mother’s arms, Torhelm could hear his father’s wheezes. His steps were heavy and clumsy, and followed by startling ‘thuds’ and ‘cracks’ from the bolts shot onto the walls. With each hit, Rohanna’s arms grew stronger. The tips snooped inside, probing for possible victims.

“Prepare to repel charge,” echoed another experienced command to the inexperienced.

A pervasive silence followed, in which mother and child were only able to hear their own breaths. “Let’s lie down and close our eyes,” whispered Rohanna while stroking her son’s hair in order. She forced the action onto Torhelm by putting her whole body’s weight onto him.

After even more awfully quiet moments that felt like an eternity, incoherent yells exploded around the cart. Voices jammed into each other, none of the men were discernible from each other. Wood broke, and steel played a frightening melody. Torhelm had been so excited about witnessing a battle, just a couple of days ago. Now he was thrown into the cruel reality of getting his wish fulfilled. The hired veteran’s voice was the easiest to make out, commanding a timid Dornhall where to stand and how to protect his flank. Nothing but “Y–, yes,” or “Under–, understood,” could be heard from the peaceful soul that was Torhelm’s father. His ever so strong-headed mother was trembling. Her grip tightened with every indistinguishable grunt. Every clash of arms, every sound that was impossible to identify. Hands firmly pressed onto Torhelm’s head, Rohanna pushed her son into her shoulder. He was unable to move, as if this small, trim woman had the mass of a horse. Time stood still and was distorted… up until all voices ceased and a realization about Dornhall, father and husband, a good man, settled in.

“Riders across the field!” yelled an unfamiliar voice, close. Very close.

The door’s handle jolted and an ever growing slit of light ran through the carriage. Rohanna’s head jumped up and her eyes widened in terror. Yet, before she could take action, a familiar voice roared. “Hands off!” The hired sword yelled and the door snapped back. Hearing the scuffle outside, bumping against the wood of the wagon, Rohanna pressed her hand onto Torhelm’s mouth. Like the good mother she was, she grabbed a blanket from the side and threw it over her son. His head still glanced out, watching. The mother took a knife from the cooking stash in a reverse grip, hiding the edge behind her forearm. Crouching in front of the door, she listened to the violent murder that happened on the other side.

Never had Torhelm seen his mother like that; a lynx, ready to pounce. He heard the footsteps closing in and all noises of battle were quenched for quite a while. The handle moved again and Rohanna blocked all sight deeper into the wagon.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Hello there, pretty,” said a toothless voice with a lisp of blood. “You look like you know what’s coming,” he cackled.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Rohanna and leapt outside.

The door smashed shut and Torhelm, unlike before, heard every single word. “Hey, hey!” The man laughed. “So you like it rough, bitch? Let’s go insi–” Interrupted by his own scream, the groaning and moaning began. Not the one expected by their assailant and Torhelm heard the man call his mother more names than anybody had ever dared to say. Hard knocks against the door, a biting growl… and then back to silence. Not once did Torhelm’s head slide back under the blanket. He lacked the strength to do so; his muscles felt hardened like stone. Eyes glued at the window of the door, from which he could barely see anything but the gray sky and snow falling. The shape of a head flickered past and the door opened again. In front of him stood a triumphant figure, hands holding onto nothing but blood. Freed, disheveled hair, panting and a piece of her sleeve ripped straight off. Rohanna smiled at her son, forced, and fell to her knees.

“Tor…m,” she whispered and laid her arms around him for a warm embrace. “My be…love.” Tears and blood from her hip drenched the blanket between them. “Stay quie… don… move.”

“Mother,” mewled the boy. “Are they gone? Was that the last?”

“Pr–, promise me, my boy.” Rohanna’s voice became quieter with every syllable. “Promise me that–” She swallowed her pain. “Promise me you stay curious and study. You will become a handsome and smart young man,” she mumbles with her last strength and left a bloody kiss on his forehead. “Don’t… become a–” She halted. “A fool.”

“Please!” Torhelm could not do what he was told, to stay quiet. “Please, don’t leave me here,” he speaks aloud. But there were no more words to return. They laid down next to each other, Rohanna slipping to the side, wrapped in their winter cloaks. Warm blood spread throughout the wagon and grew cold.

…

“Damned! That ain’t our riders,” was the first sound that reached Torhelm after time had lost all meaning. He held onto his mother and nothing else.

Hooves trampled and the sounds of battle gained track once more. No tragedy was able to distract from the mayhem. Torhelm slipped out from under the cover, and his mother. No matter the pain, she had set an example and he had to follow it. His parents did not raise a coward. Rummaging through the cooking utensils, he found another knife to arm himself with. The boy cowered in front of the door, ready to become a man. Act like the heroes he read about. His pants were already covered in blood, more would not worsen them. The third round of silence came sooner than expected with no battle close-by. A heavy set of footsteps came closer and the sound of metal on wood announced the door knob. Torhelm was ready. Ready, he was…

‘Clank’, rang the knife when he stabbed onto the red-brown brigandine of a heavily armored man. A polished sallet looked him dead in the eyes. At the sight of a buckler and a cavalry sword, Torhelm was overcome by fear. Yet, he recognized that this was not the man his mother fended off. The boy imagined a deadly stare behind the thin slits.

“A–” The boy’s lungs were like boulders. “Are you… a knight?” He uttered.

“Do I look like I shit gold?” The soldier looked at the boy, and up and down the wagon.

No face, no emotions, nothing for Torhelm to read. Until the imposing figure sheathed away his blade. “Are you here to save us?” Torhelm still pushed the knife against the man’s armored chest. Right where his heart might’ve been.

The soldier hesitated before pushing the edge to the side. “This’ your ma?”

The only answer Torhelm was able to give was a desperate cry, now that he saw his own weakness. The bitter tears of those who have lost. His knees gave in and he nearly fell over, unable to make his wailing words understood. Until a cold, steel plated arm entangled him.

“Yes boy,” said the rough voice beneath the helmet with a curt nod. “I’m here to save you.” With a lifted visor, a greasy and unshaven face uncovered. An improperly healed, old scar ran along the jawline, visible after his bevor was pulled down. The pair of brown eyes were uncaring and grim.

“Corporal!” Another man in maille and an open helmet yelled from the next wagon. “Two more survivors. Had to drag a fella off a girl,” said the other soldier and walked over with a casual salute. “Right after unmounting, what a mess.”

“Casualties?” Asked the corporal and placed a hand on Torhelm’s shoulder.

“Zenn’s dead. Tripped from the stirrups,” sighed the private, crestfallen, and shrugged.

Torhelm knew the ranks of the soldiers. Another child had explained them to him, back with the camp followers. They differed from unit to unit, forged by different artisans. But a common pattern had established itself throughout Albion. Earning a shield meant that one was not a mere recruit anymore and either a sword or lance on it made you a corporal. Even though these men came on horseback, their insignia weren’t those of cavalrymen.

“Damned, Snappy.” The more heavily armored soldier shook his head. “That ain’t good. He and Bode just got signed for another year. Do you know where he is?”

“Pff–” A sharp, disappointed whistle left Snappy’s lips. “I dunno where the other bodge brother is.” He mustered Torhelm and gasped when he saw the feet of his mother. “Who’s your new friend, Zaber?”

“Find Bode and relieve him from looting. Let him handle Zenn’s body,” said Zaber and scratched the scar behind the bevor. “I want Isenard and Beo to pack up the carts. You saddle up again and check on Asher’s squad, after you’ve found Bodger.”

“Understood,” nodded Snappy and waved another salute. “Don’t be scared, little man. We killed all the bad ones.” The private put his mailled hand onto Torhelm’s other shoulder and winked at him as if it were any other day.

“Come with me,” said Zaber and lifted Torhelm out of the wagon. It was so quick that the boy couldn’t resist. His first reaction on the ground was to turn around, look at his mother’s back and head. And how everything was drenched in her blood. “Eyes on the prize, boy.” The corporal turned the child around at the shoulders. “What’s your name?”

“It’s…” The patrician child looked back; eyes sticky from the tears. The cold was seeping into his cheeks, and he wiped his face, clenched into the cloak.

“Alright, I’ll let you handle this mess,” said Snappy and bumped his fist against Zaber’s shoulder. “Be right back.”

After gaining Torhelm’s attention, Zaber stared off to the other carts. Two more soldiers had taken off their helmets, clad in maille and thick paddings. They found something to drink and stood around said woman. She was young; too young to be around soldiers like them. The men surrounding her laughed when they felt their corporal’s gaze on them and waved him over. “What’s the orders, big man?”

Zaber and Torhelm wandered over to the older soldiers, who were somewhere around their forties. Only now did the boy notice how young Snappy was and this Zaber was closer to twenty than he was to thirty. Yet, the corporal was in charge and all the other soldiers met him with a dirty kind of respect.

“Get your arses to work,” said Zaber and looked at the trembling women. A couple of bags with millet and barley were already here and got more attention from the soldiers than her. “I want everything packed up. Man the biggest carts you can find, bundle up the horses and move the rest into the woods for later.” He pointed around and got his wishes fulfilled very quickly. And got some half-assed salutes that nobody took seriously, followed by unmotivated strolls.

Inside the cart with the millet and barley was a frail old man, staring into the snow. The young woman had grabbed her own arms to keep warm and not lose her nerves from what was about to happen. Zaber looked at her and the geezer, barely mentally present, before raising his hand in front of her face.

“’aight, let’s find y’all some blankets,” said the corporal and unstrapped his helmet. He placed it on the coachbox and climbed up. “Names?” Zaber looked down.

Torhelm missed most of what happened as his eyes got fixated on the gutter canal next to the road. He recognized the boots peeking out and the featherless hat that got buried under the snow. Did he run away from them, or confront danger head-on? As Torhelm took his first step towards the gutter, a hand reached for his collar and his face went pale.

“Boy,” said Zaber from the coachbox. “Leave it be. We’ll bury them when we come back; we are just a dozen and–” The corporal hesitated. The old timer was still lost in his own gaze, but the young woman and child looked at him, shocked. “Our orders took too long. General is sick and we got the news too late.”

“What news?” asked the woman. Her clothes were still intact, only a light cut on her hand and some snow and dirt here and there. She may be of age or not; hard to tell. “Did you know? These two also said–”

“These ain’t phoenix troops; they were griffons like us.” Zaber threw down two rough blankets and wrapped one around the frail figure inside the wagon. “Common thing when free banners get dissolved.” His tone dampened.

“Common thing?!” The woman got loud. “What do–”

“Warm up,” interrupted Zaber and jumped down, making a ruckus of metal sounds. “I’ll get this cart empty and bring y’all to our camp for rest,” he explained and lent a hand to the young woman, glimpsing at Torhelm whose eyes wandered around the corpses. The young woman winced when the cold steel touched her. “Didn’t mean to,” said Zaber. “How bad is it?”

“I–, I don’t know,” she falters. “He didn’t go through. This is… this is just–” She full stops.

“Get up and get warm.” The corporal placed his hand on the wool blanket in the woman’s hand. She held it as if she had never seen one before.

The soldier didn’t get the response he had wished for. Her world and his had been too different. When she got up on her own, he looked after the boy and his unsettled eyes again. He took away his blanket and wrapped it around him.

“Names?” Zaber asked once more. “I ain’t asking again.”

“Bina,” said the woman and sat down, far away from the frail old man. Far away from any men, no matter the age.

“Greon,” whispered the geezer. “I’m from a village across the river. Ten days ago–” His voice was raspy and as weak as his body looked like. “Ten days ago I got hired by Mersheimer and his men. T–, to tell ‘em about good ambush spots…”

Zaber sighed. “We retreat soon. Airich will send you home,” he said. “What about you, any place we can drop you off?” The veteran looked at the woman, huddled behind the barley.

“I paid a merchant to take me to Freybern,” she said, without eye contact. “To see my uncle.”

“I’ll see what I can do when we’re back,” said Zaber with a curt nod. “What about you, boy? This’ your pa?”

The boy swallowed the shock and grabbed onto the blanket. “Yes,” he sniveled. “We’re from Hohendam. Up north, where–” Torhelm’s speech was slow.

“That’s damned far away.” Zaber lifted him up the cart. “I’ll look after you until we figure it out,” he said. “Now give me your damned name.”

“T–” The boy struggled with leaving sight of his father and mother. “Tor–, Tor… m.” Tears ran down his cheeks again. It was a long way ahead of them.