Here follows the rise and fall of
Delaney Dashiell
Warlady of Dashiell Holding
as dictated to
Jeremy, Professor at MacGeary College
In the year 1343
I first met the Lady Delaney after...
No that is getting ahead of the story. I need to start at the beginning.
This is Delaney's story afterall, not mine.
And what a story it is. The rise and fall of the Warlady. The most unlikely story possible.
Where to start? Not at Delaney's birth or her early years. No, the best place to start is the event that changed Delany's life forever. She wasn't Delaney Dashiell then. Just Delaney, daughter of a blacksmith and seamstress, without a clue how her life would change.
Chapter One - Prisoners
The Year 1279
The wagon wheels creaked under us, the bed bouncing hard in the ruts causing moans of pain. We all were hurting, some more than others. I leaned against the side, looking out through the bars at the world we were passing.
Forests, plains, hills, mountains in the distance. None I recognized. It had been a week, maybe more, the days all tended to run together into one long mess of pain. I’d spend most of it sleeping, or trying to. It was hard to find space to lay in the crowded wagon. And when the rains came, there was no peace.
Or the burning sun. Or the cold winds at night. I’d found myself huddling up to people I wouldn’t have been caught near before. Actually wanting someone to touch me so I could feel their warmth. But no one here wanted anything to do with any of that. We were all tired, hurting, dirty, depressed. If it was a bad feeling. We were it.
Even the guards left us alone. Mostly because of the threat of death if one of us ended up hurt. Or damaged. In any way. I remember what the guard’s captain had said, looking right at me. His gaze said he wanted to disobey his own orders. “This one will fetch a good price from the Warlord,” he had said, his voice hard, unyielding. “Leave her alone.” And they had. The wagon hit a deep rut, my head bouncing back, flying forward and slamming into the iron bars. I winced, feeling the bruise growing on my cheek. Not that I’d notice. There were already bruises there. What did one more make?
And the pain just reminded me that I was alive. Which might not have been a good thing.
Life had been good back home. I grew up in the village of Dunweld. We were a vassal of a Lord Erick Von Hilding. Just one of many. Von Hilding, from what the elders had told me, was a decent enough Lord. He didn’t tax us that badly, only took a small number of the men and women for his armies, didn’t take all our food. I’d heard of worse Warlords. Life was good.
We were poor. Everyone in the village was. Our sole reason for existing was to funnel resources, materials and people, to Von Hilding’s Primary Holding, a city called Hildinghold. Not the largest city in the area, only three thousand people, maybe five thousand. But it was prosperous enough and Von Hilding was a good enough Warlord that he was able to expand his holdings on a regular basis. Until the mercenaries came.
Da was one of the many blacksmiths in town. But unlike them, he was Tier Four, almost the highest. The highest any crafter in our small village could get. That gave him some prestige and bonuses to crafting. Made him the envy of the others. We were still poor, but not as poor as the others. Which made for some jealousy with the other kids my age.
At eighteen, it was time for me and the others to start our apprenticeships, figure out where in the village and the great working of the Holding we’d fit. Most would become soldiers. A Warlord always needed more soldiers. I was hoping to find work in the Smithy with Da, or maybe as one of the seamstresses with Ma. She was only Tier One, barely able to make a clean stitch, offering no bonus to the craftings from the village. But she was still Ma and Da loved her. And they loved me. And I loved them.
I fought back the tears. I’d spent most of the first week doing nothing but crying. Had thought I had no more to give.
I leaned my head against the bars, holding tight, fighting against the swaying and the bouncing. Eyes closed, I fought them back down. After that week I had promised I wouldn’t cry anymore. And I wouldn’t. There was revenge to be had.
*****
That’s what I kept telling myself. That was maybe the only reason I kept going. I wanted revenge. The leader of the mercenaries was a Tier Three Hero called Gladius Strucken. Hero is such an odd name but it’s what people like him were called. The special ones. The warriors or mages with abilities that set them apart from the common soldier or guards. Strucken was anything but a hero, he was as bad as they got. He cared about nothing or anyone. Treated us like cattle, things to be sold, because that’s what we were to him.
Dunweld didn’t have much in the way of defenses. We had some of course, every Holding had to have some. Defenses and the type of buildings was how a Holding was classified. Village, Town, City. We had a dirt rampart, four towers, and two wooden gates. Because Dunweld was just a resource town, we didn’t have a University or Library. But we did have a separate building for each of the crafts, instead of just a large crafting hall like some cities I’d seen.
Of course those were mostly just for creating and training soldiers. All that stuff could be done at the Primary Holding of course, but many Warlords found it better to use their vassal holdings for those purposes. Turning villages into production, materials or people. That was how they were able to create more, faster and quicker. So of course we had defenses. And soldiers to man those defenses.
No Hero of our own though. That would have given our defenses a boost and more morale for the soldiers. Probably wouldn’t have made a difference. Strucken and his mercenaries showed up. Just one of dozens of bands that roamed the world. And they did what they did. Destroyed our meager defenses and took the survivors prisoners. Some Warlords, they liked to use slave labor in the mines and fields, freeing up their own citizens to become soldiers. Mercenary groups like Strucken’s supplied them with those slaves from villages like Dunweld. I’d seen Strucken kill Da and Ma.
All us near adulthood had been in the forest. One last moment of freedom before our lives would begin and we’d join the rest of the village in producing for Von Hilding’s endless war and expansions.
We had seen the smoke rising over the trees, leaving the river and rushing home. The screams were heard as we got closer, that just made us run faster. The ones that wanted to be soldiers, they rushed ahead, thinking they could do something to help the fighting. We all knew what the smoke and screams meant. It wasn’t the first time Dunweld had been attacked. It would be the last. I was in the back of the group. Afraid. Tears already starting to fall. We walked through the gate, not thinking. Which was when the mercenaries closed it behind us. Trapping us in with them. Held at sword point we were marched into the town square to join the rest of the village. All two hundred of us. Everyone was on their knees. I felt rough hands grab at my shoulders, pushing me down. I kneeled down, looking around for Ma and Da.
Dunweld had been attacked before, but our defenses had never been breached. Not like this.
I wasn’t the only one crying. Even some of the men were. There were bodies being piled up, I could see them in the background behind the three men that stood on the steps to the Great Hall, the village’s meeting area. They were all heavily armored. Black and gray, lots of sharp points, carved details. There were two on either side of the third. He was on the top of the steps looking out over his conquests.
I didn’t know his name at the time. His armor was the most elaborate. I had no idea about any of it, the values or capabilities the pieces gave him. The metal just made him look scary. As did the helm, carved like a roaring dragon. He lifted the visor, looking out at the crowd.
Older than I would have thought. Mostly gray hair, with some black streaks in his beard. His face was lined with age, a long scar running from right temple to lower jaw. But his eyes were black, like pits. He smiled as he looked at us, the flames from burning buildings making him seem to glow. “Good evening,” he said, his voice deep, growling. “I think you realize what is happening. As such, I will not waste your time or ours with explanations. I will say that we must move quickly. Our employer is far from here. That means we will travel light and as such, only the most essential will come with us.” He stopped talking, letting us understand what he was saying. Most essential. That meant that he only wanted the highest Tiers, or the strongest, or the most fit. The old, infirm, lower Tiers, all would be left behind. Which was a nice way of saying killed.
I think I screamed at that point.
Mom was only Tier One.
I was Tier Zero because I hadn’t picked a Trade yet. But that meant I was still useful. I could be molded and shaped, thrown into whatever task this man’s employer would have me do. A Tier Zero was almost as valuable as a Tier Three. I wanted to rush forward, tackle one of the ugly soldiers, grab his sword, run screaming at the leader and kill him. A stupid wish I knew, I’d be dead before I got to the first soldier. But I wanted to. Except I was afraid. Terrified. Petrified. I just watched as the other two armored men descended the steps. They started walking through the crowd, pointing at people, gesturing to soldiers behind them. Those soldiers would take the person, bringing them somewhere. I saw two directions. It didn’t take long for us to realize which was the useful direction and which one was not.
The gray armored soldier, a woman, stopped in front of my Ma and Da. I was able to see them now. Da had his arms around Ma, who was crying. They knew what was coming. I knew what was coming. I tried to stand. A rough hand pushed me down. Looking over my shoulder, glaring at the man, I saw the shining tip of a sword only inches from my face.
“Don’t try it,” the man said.
He was ugly. Bald, with blue eyes, no hair at all. Not even eyebrows. One scar ran across his right eye, somehow the eye still there. Another ran across his chin. He leered at me, daring me to move. There was nothing I could do, fear gripping me even harder now. I slumped, defeated, hearing my mom cry out.
The gray armored warrior had lifted her visor. She was pretty. Sharp chin, high cheeks, bright blue eyes, strands of blond hair visible. But she looked carved from stone. Pretty but deadly.
She held mom by the hair, dragging her up, pushing mom toward the soldiers that would bring her to the useless line. I saw Da growl. He had a temper when pushed, normally calm and level headed. He was pushed now.
The woman had turned, watching the soldier drag Ma away kicking and screaming. Da was up quickly. A large man from working the forge all day, every day, he surged forward, grabbing at the armored woman. She reacted quickly, sword out of her scabbard and into Da’s stomach in a flash. Da’s eyes grew wide in surprise. He didn’t even look down at the wound in his stomach. He just dropped to the ground when she pulled the sword out. He didn’t move.
I screamed. Mom screamed. Tears flowed down my cheeks. The gray armored woman looked down at Da’s corpse. Not sadly. Disappointed? People were crying, talking. The villagers were looking around, starting to panic. “Stop,” the leader’s voice rang out. Everyone stopped talking, all heads turning to look at him. He walked down the steps, stopping near the soldiers that were holding Ma. She squirmed in their grasp, kicking and screaming, cursing them. The leader nodded to the soldier, who released Ma.
She fell, hard, but didn’t care, crawling across the hard packed dirt to Da’s body. She cradled him, rocking, crying. I wanted to run to her but couldn’t.
“What a waste,” the leader said, turning in a circle, arms wide. He stopped and pointed at Da’s body. “That man was a Tier Four Blacksmith? The best this village had to offer. I could have gotten a lot of coin for him. But now? Now he is useless? And instead of a Tier Four Blacksmith, I have this Tier One Seamstress? Is that a fair trade?” Without a word, the man walked forward, drawing his sword. Time slowed to a crawl. It was seconds but felt like hours. I saw the sword being pulled, heard the sound of metal sliding against leather, saw the sharp edge glinting in the sun. I tried to call out but no words came, just tears. With a casual twist, he pointed the tip at Ma’s back and pushed. Effortlessly, the blade sliced into Ma’s back. She arched, giving me a clear view of the tip bursting out her chest. Blood flew out with it, all in slow motion, staining her light blue dress. Ma fell forward, collapsing onto Da. The leader gave his sword a casual flick, drops of blood flying off, as time resumed its natural pace.
“Now it is even more of a waste,” he turned around, hard eyes glaring at everyone again. “Do not do this again.”
I collapsed to the ground, tears flowing freely.
Three faces filled my vision. The leader, the gray armored warrior woman and the bald soldier with two scars. I don’t know why I did it, but I did. I promised myself, my parents and the Gods, that I would see those three dead by my hand. Just another stupid promise.