Harren gripped the reins of his horse tightly in his gloved hands as he led the beast down the cobbled boulevard of the King’s Road. Behind him, his retainers held their reins in similarly, white-knuckled grasp as they watched the unnaturally pale faces of the Rillmen watching them from the sides of the road. They looked famished, starved like stray dogs, eyes sunken, begging for scraps.
For that matter, they smelled little better than mongrel mutts, their odor lingering along the road. A noble pang of pity struck a chord in Harren’s heart and he took a hand from the reins to loosen his coin purse. He scooped a handful of silver Lions and flung them into the gutter by the edge of the road. The coins stuck in the snow and shit along the road, gleaming in the sunlight.
Passersby stopped in their tracks and dove for the scattered wealth, fighting among themselves. The sight sickened Harren and he turned away lest he regret his generosity. His younger brother, Brian, pulled his horse alongside Harren. “Do they all live like this?” Brian asked, a mingled sense of disgust and surprise in his voice as he looked around at the slums.
Harren grunted and shook his head as he followed his brother’s gaze, taking in the crumbling wooden structures leaning on each other for support, seeming to bend from the weight of the snow atop them. Shit filled gutters were mere feet from where people laid their heads to sleep. It was rare to see a face that didn’t seem to beg for sustenance. All this was commonplace to the areas beyond the city walls that the Rillmen quaintly referred to as the ‘Outwalls’.
“It’ll be better once we’re in the inside the city walls,” he said, “Passing through here is a necessary evil.”
Harren looked up to the castle perched on the high cliffs in the distance, a monolithic monstrosity. A sigh escaped his lungs. There was nothing he hated more than attending court here, but it was his duty to advance the interests of his family- and his own.
Still, he could have used another few weeks at his family estates in Caldwyn. He was little more than a child when his father was awarded the land, right on the border between Venar and the Rills. Or, rather right over the border. That arbitrary line set after the war meant he technically owed his fealty to the Earl of Bleakridge. He rolled his eyes at the thought.
“Harren,” Brian yelled.
The alarm in his brother’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. His eyes followed his brother’s gaze to where a woman struggled among a group of men. They were pawing at her, their movements becoming more aggressive by the moment. Her scream was stifled as one of the men clamped a hand around her throat. The woman was pretty, and her eyes seemed to lock onto them with a look of desperate pleading as she was dragged toward a nearby alley, her feet kicking in the filthy snow.
Harren leaned over in his saddle and grabbed the reins of his brother’s horse, yanking back as hard as he could as the boy dug his spurs into the horse’s flank. Confused, the horse reared, kicking its legs in the air as Brian tumbled from the saddle onto the snow dusted cobblestone.
Brian cursed as he scrambled to his feet. He looked up to Harren as he fumbled with the sword at his waist. “What are you doing?” he cried, “we have to help her!” His eyes snapped back to where the woman disappeared into the alley, her hands clawing at her assailants.
“It’s a fucking lure,” Harren snapped more harshly than he intended to. He took a deep breath to calm himself, wondering how furious his father would be if Harren let Brian get killed on his first day in the city.
His brother hesitated, brow furrowed in confusion. “Lure?” he asked.
“If I let you chase after her, another dozen men would have ambushed you in that alley, killed our guards, and held us for ransom. It’s an act the Sons like to play on nobles.”
A frown creased Brian’s lips. “And if that wasn’t an act?”
“Get on the horse. Don’t leave the road,” Harren said.
Brian’s frown deepened, but he obeyed. Once he was mounted, Harren set their column into motion once more at a quicker pace. It was rare, but he’d heard stories of ambushes along the King’s Road itself. The sooner they got to the gates, the better.
Harren felt better once they caught up to a merchant caravan traveling the same path to the city. The caravan guards also seemed to relax a little with a half-dozen more swords on their heels. Harren slowed his pace to match that of the train of trundling carts, preferring the safety in numbers to speed. He kept an eye on his brother, making sure he wasn’t about to ride off the road on some new heroic venture. If they were taken from the road, the garrison wouldn't even bother searching for them.
But Brian was young, and this was his first time in the city. He had a lot of hard lessons to learn. It was Harren’s job to ensure they didn’t kill him. He fingered the coarse hairs along his chin as they followed the caravan. Gods, he’d kill for a shave and a bath. There had been little time for either on their journey north from Caldwyn. Father wanted to make sure Brian made it in time for the Marshal’s annual competition.
It was a rite of passage for young Venaran noblemen in the Rills, with prestige and glory going to the winner. Harren had won his year, and the expectation was that Brian would do the same. Harren’s other job was to make sure that happened. A smirk creased his lips as his hand drifted unconsciously to the hilt of his bronze sword. He was sure he’d enjoy that task.
As the front of the caravan neared the gate set into the high, stone walls, Harren drew his mount around the carts, galloping past them toward the gate guards who stood waiting.
The merchant seated on the cart at the front of the column raised his hands and ground the caravan to a halt, letting Harren and his comrades cut in front of him at the gate. The southern merchant bowed his head in deference as Harren passed by- as it should be. Harren nodded toward the merchant, grateful for the proper display of respect. He turned his attention to the gate guards. They were split into two distinct groups, each occupying one side of the stone archway.
To his left were good Venaran soldiers dressed in gleaming bronze lamellar armor with green cloaks adorning their shoulders. To his right were Rillish soldiers dressed in drab iron chain, their thick beards doubtless hiding a plethora of fleas.
Harren led his group to the left where the Venaran soldiers had averted their eyes in deference. To his right, the Rillmen watched them with looks that bordered on insubordinate. They never showed the proper deference. But that was the least of what bothered him about these people.
One of the Venaran guards stepped forward, eyes still averted. “Baron Barrington, welcome back my lord.”
Harren smiled, pleasantly surprised that the guard recognized him. He technically wasn’t a Baron until his father passed, but he appreciated the dignity it communicated. He’d put in a good word for the post with the Marshal. “Good morning, Sargent. I would say it’s good to be back, but-” he trailed off.
The soldier displayed an understanding grin. “Just six months left on my deployment, lord. Just taking it a day at a time.” The grin fell away from the man’s face, and he straightened himself. “I apologize for any inconvenience, lord, but the Marshal has instituted martial law within the city for the day. I’m going to have to insist two of my men accompany you to your destination to ensure you aren’t unnecessarily harassed by our patrols.”
Harren interpreted that as ‘It’s dangerous, and I want to cover my ass if something happens to you,’ but he could appreciate that.
Brian pulled his mount alongside Harren. “Did something happen?” The guard nodded. The Sons struck in the night. Caught several of our patrols. Only a few men survived. The Marshal locked down the inner city until the culprits are found.
“And if they made it beyond the wall?” Brian asked.
The guard shifted uncomfortably.
“We’ll discuss that later, Brian,” Harren said, sparing the guard from having to admit it didn’t matter whether the ‘culprits’ had committed the crime, just that they had committed a crime. The Marshal had likely already drafted the lineup for an execution tomorrow. The martial law was just a show. He was flexing his military might just to remind the Rillmen he could.
“For now, we’d appreciate the escort,” Harren added.
“Of course, lord.” The soldier bowed, then gestured toward two of his men.
Harren waited while the two Venaran Soldiers grabbed their mounts from the hitching post past the gate. He gazed across the finely crafted stone buildings with steep, triangular roofs. Most had real windows, though the shutters on many were latched shut. The streets were clean aside from the snowdrifts plied to the side of the roads. The air even smelled cleaner. It was like walking into a new world compared to the squalor a few dozen paces behind him.
Beside him, Brian was glancing over his shoulder, taking in the disparity. It had struck Harren as well when he first arrived, nearly seven years ago. It just was. No sense lamenting it. He put a hand on Brian’s shoulder as the pair of mounted gate guards approached. “We’re headed to the Marshal’s Manor,” he said.
The guards gave a slight nod before spurring their horses into a canter down the main boulevard. Harren followed in their wake, glancing over his shoulder to make sure their family retainers were still on his heels.
The streets were deserted aside from the odd group of Venaran or Rillish guardsmen paroling the streets. The uneasiness between the two groups was palpable. If Harren could have his way, he’d have thrown out the Earl and the remaining vestiges of his authority in favor of a Venaran military government long ago.
This compromise established at the end of the war made him uneasy, but he logically knew that the cost of another war would be immense. Nearly half a million of his countrymen died to subdue the Rills. Harren shook his head, trying to conceive that number of people. It was more than lived in this entire city, and its scale was still hard for him to grasp, even after all these years.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Nearly twenty minutes passed as they wound through the maze of streets deviating from the King’s Road before he saw the walls of the Venaran fort. Six city blocks had been leveled to accommodate the complex. Inside was everything the Marshal needed to exert his influence across the entire province. Nearly forty-thousand men were spread across the vast expanse of land- two whole legions.
Inside that fort was also the only man who could elevate Harren’s status above that of a frontier noble. He longed to someday see the court of Venar, to take part in that grand assembly. To be away from-
Here.
Harren sighed, waiting as the soldiers leading him discussed briefly with the gate guards. They bowed in his direction before calling to the gatehouse above to open the gate. He heard gears turning in the wall before the portcullis began to rise.
Harren rode through with his brother, unopposed. Large stone barracks sat in rows to either side of the small road leading through the military complex. Hundreds of Venaran soldiers milled about, seeing to supplies or running drills in the small fields cleared for that purpose.
Harren ignored their bows as he and Brian rode through, making their way towards the Marshal’s residence. After a couple blocks, the drab, utilitarian buildings gave way to a short field leading up to a cast iron fence that stretched from the far eastern wall to the western. It separated the military facilities from the Marshal’s residence. The disparity mirrored that of the inner city and the outer. Beyond the fence, were winding paths between carefully pruned evergreen trees. In the warmer seasons, there would be a beautifully crafted garden present. Even now, the trees granted an attractive layer of privacy to the manor beyond.
The guards posted at the entrance were dressed in a heavier form of armor, thick bronze plates bolted onto a heavy leather cuirass. Harren knew from experience the hell it was to wear that for long periods of time. If the men were at all fatigued by it, they showed no sign, not even twitching as Harren rode past them into the garden.
He led Brian down the paths beyond, winding through the frosted trees. He couldn’t wait to get in front of a warm fire. A cold gust of wind made him wince as the trees fell away before him, revealing a manse that dwarfed the size of all buildings he’d seen save for that monstrous castle the Earl lived in, high above the city.
He led his horse around the large fountain sitting before the manse, acting as a guiding rotunda for the carriages that pulled up to the large double doors on the far side. Guards patrolled the grounds and stood watch at the entrances. Footmen waited at attention alongside them. Harren could see their struggle to avoid shivering while in his sight.
Harren dismounted alongside his brother and turned to their retainers. “You have coin for the return trip?” he asked their sargent, a rough-cut man from his father’s estates.
“Yes, lord. We’ll return at the turning before the thaw to bring any word from the Baron,” he said, “Do you have any further need of us?”
“No, you are dismissed,” Harren answered.
The sergeant and his companions bowed In their saddles before turning their steeds, doubtless off to the nearest brothel as commoners were want to do.
Harren shook his head and walked to the doors of the manor as the servants emerged to see to their horses. Behind him, Brian thanked the men. Harren refrained from rolling his eyes. As he ascended the steps, the guards by the door moved to block his path.
Harren waited patiently as one of the guards lightly rapped against the door. The click of a lock sounded from the other side, and the door opened to reveal a finely dressed gentleman with a buttoned green jacket and matching pants. His jacket was emblazoned with a golden sun above his heart, spun from thread of gold.
The spindly man quickly stepped forward, waving his hands at the guards like he was shooing away a pair of dogs. “Shoo. Shoo, you brutes. Can’t you see this is one of the Marshal’s honored guests?”
The guards grumbled beneath their breath as they stepped to the side, offering Harren a slight bow of their heads.
The finely dressed servant pressed his back against the open door and gestured for Harren and Brian to enter. “It is good to see you again master Barrington,” the man said as they entered the opulent entrance hall.
Harren was a little abashed to say he didn’t remember the man’s name, though he certainty recognized him. He pretended to be distracted by the sight of the twin marble staircases wrapping around the far side of the room. Between them was a grand tapestry depicting a golden sun on a field of green, the King’s sigil. More guards lined the long hall, their armor finely polished and shining in the candlelight from the chandeliers high above.
“Likewise,” he said absently. Harren gestured to Brian, “This is my brother, Brian Barrington. He’s here for the Marshal’s competition this year.
The servant bowed deeply. “Welcome, lord. My name is Calvin. If there is anything I can do to make your time here more comfortable, you need only let me know.”
Calvin. Harren made a mental note. It paid to remember the names of the higher ranked servants.
Calvin continued, “Shall I get you settled in your rooms, and perhaps have our maids draw a bath?”
Harren noted the not-so-subtle hint but ignored it. “Actually, if the Marshal is available, I’d like to greet him and quickly introduce my brother before we get settled in.”
A small frown tugged at Calvin’s lips, but it disappeared so quickly Harren almost missed it. “Of course, sirs. The Lord Marshal is currently at work in his study, but I believe he will have a moment to greet new guests.” He turned on his heel toward the stairwell, “Come with me.”
Harren followed Calvin with Brian trailing in their wake. Their footsteps echoed in the vast chamber as they reached the stairs and slowly ascended to the second floor. The halls above were filled with artwork framed in gilded, gold frames. Most were depictions of historical victories by the Venaran forces over the Rills. He recognized the Marshal’s face in more than a few but was unsure how much of that was truth rather than vanity.
They passed several nobles in the halls, some of whom Harren recognized from his years spent here. They were of various ages and backgrounds. Most were younger men, here for the competition. They were sizing Brian up with appraising gazes. Others were older and here to curry favor from the Marshal, like Harren.
Harren ignored them for now, focusing on trying to remember the proper cadence of a bow to somebody as high ranking as the Marshal. It was rare that Harren had to do more than nod his head. The Marshal was not one to care, but it was only proper to attend to decorum on a first introduction.
Harren licked his lips as Calvin stopped outside one of the doors and rapped lightly on the wood. A muffled voice sounded from within, “Come in.”
Calvin turned the knob and entered as Harren followed. The room was large, but not overly so, with a fine oaken desk covered by neat stacks of parchment. Bookcases lined the walls, flanked by sitting chairs and a plush, green rug ran the length of the room.
Calvin stepped onto the rug, before turning to gesture toward Harren. “Your Grace, Barronet Barrington has-”
Calvin cut off as the Marshal waved his hand dismissively. “I know who he is, Calvin. You may go.”
Calvin bowed in acknowledgment. “As you say, your grace.” The man turned on his heel and passed by Harren as he entered the room with Brian in tow. Harren knelt into a deep bow, with what he hoped was the correct arm behind his back. Brian followed his example.
“Get up, you fops.” The Marshal said as he rose to his feet, setting his quill into the inkwell.
Harren grinned as he rose to his feet. “It’s good to see you, your grace.” He gestured to his brother. “My brother, Brian, is accompanying me this year for the competition.”
The Marshal locked his eyes on Brian, and Harren could tell Brian was doing his best not to shrink from the man’s gaze. The Marshal held out a hand for Brian to shake. “Marshal Cavius Longreen,” he greeted.
Brian reached out and clasped the man’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “Brian Barrington, at your service my lord - er, your grace.”
Harren fought the urge to chuckle, and he caught a hint of amusement in the Marshal’s eyes as Brian let his hand go. He reached out and patted Brian on the shoulder. “If you do half so well as your brother has, then then you’ll make a fine showing.”
Harren fought the urge to beam at the compliment. “He’s destined to win,” Harren said, “It’s what Barringtons do.”
The Marshal snorted. “Well then, why don’t you pour us a trio of winning drinks so we can give a toast to the Goddess for luck.”
Harren nodded. “Of course, sir.” He walked to the Marshal Longreen’s desk where a crystal decanter filled with brown liquid, sat atop a golden tray next to four neatly arrayed goblets. Harren poured the drinks as the Marshal led Brian to the sitting chairs along the wall.
As he measured the liquor, Harren glanced to the papers on the Marshal’s desk, catching sight of a requisition letter bearing the royal crest with a space left empty for the King’s seal. The Marshal was requesting another legion. Harren bit his lip. Trouble on the horizon, or a game of politics? Sometimes it was hard to tell.
Harren turned away from the desk, carrying the three cups. The Marshal was hunched over with his elbows on his knees, chuckling while his brother wore a slight grin. Harren missed what had made the man laugh. The Marshal straightened as Harren passed him a glass. Brian looked at him uncertainly as Harren handed him his drink.
It occurred to Harren then that Brian had never had anything stronger than wine. Father wasn’t a fan of the harder stuff. “It’ll put some hair on your chest,” Harren said with a wink.
Brian ignored Harren, taking a careful sip. Harren was almost disappointed when he didn’t sputter. Harran drank from his own glass as the Marshal did. It was damn fine whiskey. The Marshal released a satisfied sigh and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. “I feel I should admit that I have ulterior motives for inviting you for a drink, Harren.”
Brian looked to Harren as he raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I’m at your service, your grace.”
The Marshal nodded as if he expected nothing less. “I can assume you heard about the events that transpired on the eve of your arrival.”
Harren nodded.
“Nasty business that,” the Marshal said. He glanced to the sheafs of paper lining his desk. “The event has unfortunately left me shorthanded. Most of the men killed were off-duty officers.”
Harren fought a grimace. He saw where this was going.
“I was hoping you could take a command for the duration of your stay here. I need men with experience leading. More so, I need men of proper breeding. It could be months before the King is able to send suitable replacements.” The Marshal took a sip from his glass before continuing, “You will, of course, be given the full rank of Prefectus along with all its privileges, and will be outside the normal chain of command, directly answerable to myself.”
Harren pretended to weigh his options a moment. The rank and opportunity to operate outside the normal command chain was a consolation prize. The Marshal knew this was beneath him. Bastards and third sons became officers, not heirs. However, there was really only one answer.
“I’d be honored to serve, your grace.”
A smile crossed the Marshal’s face. “Excellent. Meet me tomorrow morning, and I’ll take you to your posting.”
Harren nodded. “As you say.”
The Marshal raised his glass. “Then let us give a toast to the Goddess to bless your command and young Brian’s performance with luck.”
Harren and Brian clinked the Marshall’s glass with their own. As Longreen swallowed the entire contents of his glass, Harren followed suit. Their audience was over. “Thank you, your grace,” Harren said, plucking Brian’s still unemptied glass from his hand and setting it on a nearby table. “My brother and I are quite weary from our journey and ought to retire to our chambers to rest.”
The Marshal nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you on the morrow.”
Harren nudged Brian then turned from the Marshal, walking from the room.
“And Harren,” the Marshal called out “have Calvin send one of the maids in here. The room could use some tidying.” He paused. “The one with black hair,” he added.
Harren nodded his acknowledgment as he walked into the hallway with Brian, shutting the door behind them. Calvin was still waiting by the door for them, his posture ramrod straight and arms behind his back. “Did my lords have a pleasant conversation?” he asked.
Harren nodded absently. “The Marshal requests you fetch one of his maids.”
“The one with black hair?” Calvin asked.
“Yes,” Harren answered. “I know my way around the manor. You may see to the Marshal’s needs.”
Calvin looked relieved. “Thank you, sir,” he said before setting off down the hall at a brisk pace. The Marshal was not the most patient of men.
“Why the black haired one?” Brian asked.
“She’s not a mistress if you call her a maid,” Harren whispered. “There are many open secrets here that are known, but not spoken of. You’ll catch on.”
Harren led Brian down the hall. The boy looked uneasy, and Harren shared his apprehension. His own stay here had just become significantly more dangerous.