NNWM
Jerren froze. The dying embers of the fire made the shadows twitch and writhe of their own accord but nevertheless he was sure that the sleeping man had moved within the cocoon of blankets. Moments passed. The crack of a disintegrating coal made him flinch but the huddled form was still once more. Casting a nervous glance towards the two sheathed swords that lay within easy reach of the sleeper he stole one tentative foot forwards, easing his weight forward onto the soft mulch of the clearing floor.
His skull echoed to the pounding of his heart and he belatedly allowed himself a mental pause to consider his situation. It had been five days since he had left Utmarr in the footsteps of this stranger and there he had witnessed the travel worn soldier purchase bread and cheese with a purse that bulged with coin. His own meagre provisions had lasted less than two and his apprenticeship with Tann the carpenter had left him with little in the way of the woodcraft necessary to replenish his knapsack. Little in the way of carpentry skills either, truth be told, for Tann had three apprentices and at seventeen Jerren had been the youngest and the one charged with most of the menial tasks. Most days the closest that he got to woodworking was the sweeping up of shavings and sawdust from the workroom floor.
His stomach gurgled, distracting his attention briefly from the all too loud pounding in his chest and skull. Bending at the knee he reached out and twisted at the metal catch on the sun-faded leather bag resting against a tree. The clasp gave way with a gentle click and the soft leather peeled back to reveal paper wrapped loaves and portions of cheese, together with smaller packages that might be dried meat. Softly slipping the smaller of the loaves free of the bag he backed away from the campsite, always keeping his eyes on the two swords that lay in their sheaths by the sleeper.
The one sword.
Just as his mind registered the empty scabbard and dismay began to rise with the gorge in his throat there was a whisper of movement from behind him and the infintesimal prick of steel on the nape of his neck.
“You’re too late” noted a voice from the darkness behind him. “I would have woken up with the noise of the clasp opening.”
The loaf dropped from his nerveless fingers and Jerren let out a whimper of fright at the sensation of sudden movement behind him. He was still trying to ascertain whether he had been skewered when a dark shape moved into view, bearing before it a sword which had transfixed the falling loaf before it hit the floor.
“Actually you’re lucky that I didn’t - if I had woken to find an uninvited visitor at my campfire he would have been liable to suffer the fate of this unfortunate loaf before I had a chance to properly assess the situation.” The man pulled the bread from his blade whilst casually kicking aside the blankets to reveal a pile of leaves and deadwood. “Of course, the question would be why said visitor chose to open the bag rather than quietly lifting the whole thing. A question which in this particular circumstance the visitor still has the opportunity to answer.” He looked into Jerren’s eyes, his own nothing more than twin specks of reflected firelight in shadowed pools. “At present” he added as a seeming afterthought, raising the blade once more in the frightened boy’s direction.
“I’m just hungry Sir, I’m not a thief” Jerren blurted, then blushed immediately at the stupidity of this statement, although in the barely lit darkness the other man may not have noticed. “Besides,” he continued “we are sharing the same road. If I had taken just a loaf you may not have sought me out, but if it was all of your provisions then you probably would.”
The soldier let out a short laugh and lowered his blade, turning towards the campfire. With his back to Jerren he kicked a few of the smaller pieces of wood that had previously filled out his blankets into the embers of the fire. Tongues of flame began to lick lazily around the damp wood. “That’s a reasonably sensible answer,” he allowed, walking to the far side and turning to face the boy again “although it would have been more sensible to take the bag out of earshot, remove the bread and leave it for me to find on the path in the morning.” In the slowly gathering light from the fire Jerren thought that he saw the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of the man’s mouth. The face was otherwise as he remembered it from the village - tanned and lined from years no doubt spent in the Southlands in the service of the King, hair that might have been black but was now streaked with sunbleached brown and swept back to his shoulders. The eyes were set deep, too shadowed to make out their colour and he was clean shaven, an unusual choice for Lithian infantry who normally seemed to favour full beards. In age he might have been anywhere in his thirtys, although Jerren doubted he was near forty yet.
“But it wouldn’t have helped. You were awake anyway.” Jerren replied, confusion beginning to dilute the sheer terror still gripping him. The man sighed.
“We are considering a hypthesis.”
“What’s that? A trick?”. The soldier laughed again and tossed the loaf at him. Jerren made a clumsy attempt to catch it but failed. Crouching, he scooped it up from the ground and picked off the few damp leaves that had stuck to the greasepaper.
“No boy, simply an exploration of possible scenarios designed to educate without the risk of having one’s liver pricked.” He picked up the empty scabbard and examined the drawn blade quickly but critically in the firelight before sliding it home. “You’re from Utmarr aren’t you?” he continued, replacing the sword on the ground by its twin and seating himself. Jerren nodded, still standing.”Sit down boy, and eat the bread. Had you but approached my camp openly I would have shared it with you anyhow.”
Resisting the urge to flee instead Jerren did as he was bid, picking nervously at the now tattered wrapping to reveal the bread within. It was unleavened trail bake and five days old at that, but Jerren tore into the hardened crust convinced that it tasted better than the lightest loaf straight from the cooling tray. The soldier watched him in silence for a few moments and then continued. “The reason I was awake is that you’ve been dogging my footsteps since we left your village five days ago. Tonight you didn’t set your own camp but crept closer to mine. Precautions seemed in order.”
Jerren thought of his ‘camps’ of the last five nights, huddled miserable and fireless in the crook of some tree roots or beneath a damp bush and said nothing.
“What exactly are you travelling north for anyway?” the soldier asked.
Swallowing the last of the bread Jerren looked up at the man’s now quizical face. The bread in his now full stomach had gone a good way towards helping his fear subside, but he was now left feeling stupid - which he supposed was an improvement of sorts. “I want to join the regiments” he confessed.
The soldier laughed again, louder and longer this time. “Then you’re going the wrong way. We’re fighting in the Southlands and you’re going North. Utmarr is close to the Stonewall Mountains and on the main South road. Surely you have recruiting parties marching through all the time?”
“Yes, but they just want spear carriers. I want to travel to Hember and train to be a proper soldier. An officer maybe.”
The soldier nodded thoughtfully, his previous amusement faded as quickly as it had appeared. “You’re right. By the time they get this far south the levy troops are trained just enough to be useful as Drommie fodder. If you’re lucky you’d get taught enough to know which way to point your spear.”
“I want to be a proper infantryman.” Jerren pointed at a pile of oiled black leather and chain that seemed to glow in the firelight. “Wear the armour, bear the shield.” Although now that he thought about it it seemed that his companion was missing the traditional heavy shield borne by Lithian infantrymen.
“How did you expect to make it to Hember with no provisions? The capital is three weeks march from here.”
“I had some food,” Jerren replied, a little indignantly “just not enough. And along the way I hoped to make a few coins in the towns along the way. I am a carpenter’s apprentive. And I have a little leatherworking.”
“I see. And what of protecting yourself? You seem to have about as many weapons as you have sacks bulging with food.”
“We’re on the King’s road. I should be safe” Jerren replied, sounding confused. The soldier sighed.
“This may be a King’s highway but exactly how many of the King’s Guard have you seen patrolling it? Or visiting your village for that matter? Thanek’s blood boy, I have been back in this country less than two weeks and it is more than obvious that the King has withdrawn his protection from these roads. I imagine he is more concerned with the merchant routes nowadays than with the route to the Southlands.”
“I. We, well. No-one travels far from Utmarr now.” Jerren admitted. “Excepting those who sign up.”
“Most Baronial regiments can look after themselves. In their own homeland at least. You I’m not so sure about.” He regarded Jerren for a while, the only sound the crackle of the fire and occassional call of some night dwelling beast in the trees beyond them. Jerren felt it best to stay quiet lest he provoke another comment that might leave him feeling even stupider. Eventually the soldier spoke. “What is your name, apprentice?”
“Jerren Sir. Jerren Tarrickson.”
“Well Jerren Tarrickson, I will make you an offer. You may sleep here this evening and in the morning you can take a look at my armour - some of the stitching and banding needs attention and that will pay me for the bread and the hospitality of my camp. Then, if you wish you can accompany me to Hember - it’s where I am travelling too.”
Jerren thought of the misery of the last five nights and then of the weeks that lay between this campfire and the towers of Hember.
“Might I know your name Sir?” he asked.
“You will join me on the road?” Jerren nodded. “Then you may call me Dintaga” the man allowed. “Now, get your rest. We will be breaking camp at first light.”
*
The city of Hember had originally been surrounded by water on all but its eastern side. The towering Riverwalls still stood tall above the stone buildings they protected, tapering to meet at the point where the Sandyrush and Battwa rivers converged to form the mighty Hember Flow. Today they were crowded with wooden cranes and bustling dockworkers outnumbered patrolling guards fifty to one. Riverboats arriving from the coastal trading port of Jassaria in the west bumped hulls in the fight for berthing space against smaller barges from Conmar and Herreby upriver. On the far shores of the two rivers new buildings were being raised every day, beyond the brooding protection provided by the original city.
From his vantage point at a window high in the Princes Tower King Jassiah could not see the eastern Landwall but knew full well that the main gates would be a chaotic crush of wagons funnelled in from the East Road. Many would have travelled from as far afield as the Thelmic Empire, eager to trade silks and spices with the wealthy Hember merchants. Ten years of successful campaigning against the Dromhazi of the Southlands had swelled the wealth of his capital to a greater extent than he would have dreamed possible.
A sharp knock at the door drew his attention away from his view of the bustling city spread out below him. He nodded curtly to the palace guards who flanked the doorway and one pulled the locking bar free to swing it open. A man entered. King Jassiah easily hid his distaste at the crumpled and dusty clothing and distinct smell of hard travel that hung about the newcomer like a cloak. Instead he nodded mildy in response to the man’s crisp salute. “Speak” he ordered.
“Disptaches your majesty” the man offered, holding out a sealed leather folder. The king waved dismissively.
“On the table. Sarrik, if you please?”
The rooms other occupant made his way around the large map strewn table that dominated the tower room. He was tall and broad shouldered, his close shaven grey hair cut too short to hide the several vivid scars etched into the skull beneath. On his right shoulder he wore the ornately engraved plate shoulderguard of an officer in the Kings Guard, the gold inlay identifying him as a general. He picked up the folder and looked at the messenger, still standing at attention and apparently forgotten by the King, who had turned his gaze back to the view from the window. The general offered the man his own salute.
“Dismissed lad” he said in a deep and slightly hoarse voice. “See the duty officer and take a day to rest up before you come back to me for the responses.”
“Yes General.” The messenger saluted once more and turned slightly to bow towards the King, who had his back to him. “Your majesty.” The King declined to respond so the man turned smartly on his heel and left the room.
General Sarrik moved over to a different window and quickly examined the seal upon the folder. It seemed secure, the green wax still flecked with the gritty grey sand that got everywhere in the cursed Southlands. For all that the seal of Duke Merrion, the King’s brother and commander of the campaigning regiments was imprinted clearly upon its surface. With a swift tug he cracked it open and drew forth a sheaf of papers from within.
After a few moments studying them he moved to the table and began to cross reference details against the detailed maps that covered its surface. King Jassiah turned slowly and cast his eyes across the table with apparent disinterest, although Sarrik was well aware that the King was as eager as he was for news of the campaign.
“Well Sarrik?” King Jassiah asked.
“Good news for the main part Your Majesty” the general said with evident pleasure. “Your noble brother has stormed the stronghold of Balthrar and executed the Prince who held it against him.” The King snorted derisively.
“About damn time. He’s been sieging that place for months. It should have been stormed long since. What of the populace?”
“One in ten put to the sword, no exceptions. “
“Hmm. I suspect that ‘put to the sword’ is not quite accurate. What was the last punishment that Merrion handed out to a resisting settlement Sarrik?”
The general had knew that the King had no need to be reminded, but answered dutifully. “One in ten had their hands and feet crushed with hammers and then left in the desert for the wild beasts your Majesty” he supplied.
“In sight of the stronghold as well. Merrion confided to me that he was worried that he had miscalculated the distance and that a few might actually crawl back within bowshot of the walls. Turned out to be unfounded though, the Southlands have some decidedly unpleasant fauna.”
“Nothing to match the sculpts your majesty.” The king laughed.
“Quite so general. Anything those Dromhazi can do we can surpass, even when it comes to the inherent danger of our indigenous wildlife.”
“With the fall of Balthrar we have control of the western reaches of the Southlands Sire” Sarrik prompted, hoping to get his monarch’s attention back to the maps that littered the table. Jassiah sniffed.
“I’m aware of that. What is your point?”
“Simply that we have cut their lines of supply from the supposedly neutral states beyond that region. Your noble brother requests fresh regiments to support a push into the Dromhazi heartland. He believes that another year of campaign and the entirety of the Southlands will be subdued and ready for integration into the Lithian Empire.”
“Alliance” the king corrected sharply. “The term is irrelevant anyway, for I shall be an emperor in all but name soon enough. But the Baronial Council have always grumbled enough over the simple title of ‘king’ - I see no need to give them further cause for complaint.”
“My apologies your highness” muttered Sarrik, astonished at his own slip. Lithia had been a monarchy since Baron Niall of Hember had led the Baronies to a hard won victory in the Sculptor War four hundred years ago. Typically enough today’s Barons saw little merit in the monarchy that their own ancestors had created when they pronounced Niall king at the successful culmination of the fight. Even now the title was supposed to be an honourific, with each baron retaining autonomy over their own domain. But the days of the Council ruling over the combined affairs of the Lithian baronies was long gone and Jassiah’s war against the Southlands had gone a long way to restoring the old warrior bond of comrades united against a common foe. No matter that the justification for the invasion was spurious at best -the war had ignited the old martial spirit of the Lithian lords and the ten years of plunder had not hurt either. Aside from one or two malcontents Jassiah’s war had done wonders for the credibility of a monarchy that had seemed on the verge of collapse when he took it over fifteen years ago.
Now the phrase ‘Lithian Empire’ was a common one amongst the populace and many folk, commoner and noble alike expected that the subjugation of the Southlands was but a step on the road to a glorious future. And Sarrik knew that Jassiah, for all his feinged idolance was the sort of man who could forge such a potential future into a glorious reality.
“’For the main part’ Sarrik?” The king’s unexpected question jolted the old general from his quiet reverie.
“Your majesty?” he managed in a hoarse murmur.
“You said that it was good news for the main part Sarrik” the king reminded him with a distinct hint of impatience. “What of the minor part that goes along with it?”
“Ah. It seems that Baron Walter has recalled his Fifth following the fall of the latest Dromhazi stronghold Sire” the general supplied.
“The Connmar Fifth” mused the king. “Longbowmen aren’t they?”
“Yes Sire. And good too.” Sarrik’s tone held grudging admiration. “They’ve been out there for nearly six years and their withdrawal is the main reason cited by your royal brother in support of his request for fresh regiments to be mustered from the homelands. He, ah, also requests that you persuade Baron Walter that the Fifth are too important to the campaign to be withdrawn permanently and should be returned to the fray after they have had the bare minimum of furlough.”
Jassiah nodded absently and tapped his forefinger upon the map, marking the small but central Barony of Connmar that bordered the region of Hember itself. “Indeed” he said thoughtfully. “I think that the Fifth are far better placed in the Southlands than back here in dear old Lithia.”
*
After another two days Jerren and Dintaga reached the town of Assak. Although part of the same Barony as Utmmar Jerren had never visited the place and had been expecting a settlement of towering spires and stoneclad streets. Instead they found a huddle of low wooden buildings, thatch more often rotting than not. Its streets were merely rutted mud strips clogged with carts, people and livestock. Although surrounding the settlement the wooden pallisade was sagging in places and the guards seemed to pay little attention to those passing through the gates, unless they were young and female in which case they attracted more attention than they might have wanted.
It was Utmarr, only an Utmarr that took up more space.
Dintaga seemed unperturbed, nodding politely to the guards as he and Jerren passed through the gate. His armour was no doubt familiar to them, although if they had been more observant his weapons would have been a lot less so. Jerren certainly raised no interest in his homespun basics.
His skull echoed to the pounding of his heart and he belatedly allowed himself a mental pause to consider his situation. It had been five days since he had left Utmarr in the footsteps of this stranger and there he had witnessed the travel worn soldier purchase bread and cheese with a purse that bulged with coin. His own meagre provisions had lasted less than two and his apprenticeship with Tann the carpenter had left him with little in the way of the woodcraft necessary to replenish his knapsack. Little in the way of carpentry skills either, truth be told, for Tann had three apprentices and at seventeen Jerren had been the youngest and the one charged with most of the menial tasks. Most days the closest that he got to woodworking was the sweeping up of shavings and sawdust from the workroom floor.
His stomach gurgled, distracting his attention briefly from the all too loud pounding in his chest and skull. Bending at the knee he reached out and twisted at the metal catch on the sun-faded leather bag resting against a tree. The clasp gave way with a gentle click and the soft leather peeled back to reveal paper wrapped loaves and portions of cheese, together with smaller packages that might be dried meat. Softly slipping the smaller of the loaves free of the bag he backed away from the campsite, always keeping his eyes on the two swords that lay in their sheaths by the sleeper.
The one sword.
Just as his mind registered the empty scabbard and dismay began to rise with the gorge in his throat there was a whisper of movement from behind him and the infintesimal prick of steel on the nape of his neck.
“You’re too late” noted a voice from the darkness behind him. “I would have woken up with the noise of the clasp opening.”
The loaf dropped from his nerveless fingers and Jerren let out a whimper of fright at the sensation of sudden movement behind him. He was still trying to ascertain whether he had been skewered when a dark shape moved into view, bearing before it a sword which had transfixed the falling loaf before it hit the floor.
“Actually you’re lucky that I didn’t - if I had woken to find an uninvited visitor at my campfire he would have been liable to suffer the fate of this unfortunate loaf before I had a chance to properly assess the situation.” The man pulled the bread from his blade whilst casually kicking aside the blankets to reveal a pile of leaves and deadwood. “Of course, the question would be why said visitor chose to open the bag rather than quietly lifting the whole thing. A question which in this particular circumstance the visitor still has the opportunity to answer.” He looked into Jerren’s eyes, his own nothing more than twin specks of reflected firelight in shadowed pools. “At present” he added as a seeming afterthought, raising the blade once more in the frightened boy’s direction.
“I’m just hungry Sir, I’m not a thief” Jerren blurted, then blushed immediately at the stupidity of this statement, although in the barely lit darkness the other man may not have noticed. “Besides,” he continued “we are sharing the same road. If I had taken just a loaf you may not have sought me out, but if it was all of your provisions then you probably would.”
The soldier let out a short laugh and lowered his blade, turning towards the campfire. With his back to Jerren he kicked a few of the smaller pieces of wood that had previously filled out his blankets into the embers of the fire. Tongues of flame began to lick lazily around the damp wood. “That’s a reasonably sensible answer,” he allowed, walking to the far side and turning to face the boy again “although it would have been more sensible to take the bag out of earshot, remove the bread and leave it for me to find on the path in the morning.” In the slowly gathering light from the fire Jerren thought that he saw the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of the man’s mouth. The face was otherwise as he remembered it from the village - tanned and lined from years no doubt spent in the Southlands in the service of the King, hair that might have been black but was now streaked with sunbleached brown and swept back to his shoulders. The eyes were set deep, too shadowed to make out their colour and he was clean shaven, an unusual choice for Lithian infantry who normally seemed to favour full beards. In age he might have been anywhere in his thirtys, although Jerren doubted he was near forty yet.
“But it wouldn’t have helped. You were awake anyway.” Jerren replied, confusion beginning to dilute the sheer terror still gripping him. The man sighed.
“We are considering a hypthesis.”
“What’s that? A trick?”. The soldier laughed again and tossed the loaf at him. Jerren made a clumsy attempt to catch it but failed. Crouching, he scooped it up from the ground and picked off the few damp leaves that had stuck to the greasepaper.
“No boy, simply an exploration of possible scenarios designed to educate without the risk of having one’s liver pricked.” He picked up the empty scabbard and examined the drawn blade quickly but critically in the firelight before sliding it home. “You’re from Utmarr aren’t you?” he continued, replacing the sword on the ground by its twin and seating himself. Jerren nodded, still standing.”Sit down boy, and eat the bread. Had you but approached my camp openly I would have shared it with you anyhow.”
Resisting the urge to flee instead Jerren did as he was bid, picking nervously at the now tattered wrapping to reveal the bread within. It was unleavened trail bake and five days old at that, but Jerren tore into the hardened crust convinced that it tasted better than the lightest loaf straight from the cooling tray. The soldier watched him in silence for a few moments and then continued. “The reason I was awake is that you’ve been dogging my footsteps since we left your village five days ago. Tonight you didn’t set your own camp but crept closer to mine. Precautions seemed in order.”
Jerren thought of his ‘camps’ of the last five nights, huddled miserable and fireless in the crook of some tree roots or beneath a damp bush and said nothing.
“What exactly are you travelling north for anyway?” the soldier asked.
Swallowing the last of the bread Jerren looked up at the man’s now quizical face. The bread in his now full stomach had gone a good way towards helping his fear subside, but he was now left feeling stupid - which he supposed was an improvement of sorts. “I want to join the regiments” he confessed.
The soldier laughed again, louder and longer this time. “Then you’re going the wrong way. We’re fighting in the Southlands and you’re going North. Utmarr is close to the Stonewall Mountains and on the main South road. Surely you have recruiting parties marching through all the time?”
“Yes, but they just want spear carriers. I want to travel to Hember and train to be a proper soldier. An officer maybe.”
The soldier nodded thoughtfully, his previous amusement faded as quickly as it had appeared. “You’re right. By the time they get this far south the levy troops are trained just enough to be useful as Drommie fodder. If you’re lucky you’d get taught enough to know which way to point your spear.”
“I want to be a proper infantryman.” Jerren pointed at a pile of oiled black leather and chain that seemed to glow in the firelight. “Wear the armour, bear the shield.” Although now that he thought about it it seemed that his companion was missing the traditional heavy shield borne by Lithian infantrymen.
“How did you expect to make it to Hember with no provisions? The capital is three weeks march from here.”
“I had some food,” Jerren replied, a little indignantly “just not enough. And along the way I hoped to make a few coins in the towns along the way. I am a carpenter’s apprentive. And I have a little leatherworking.”
“I see. And what of protecting yourself? You seem to have about as many weapons as you have sacks bulging with food.”
“We’re on the King’s road. I should be safe” Jerren replied, sounding confused. The soldier sighed.
“This may be a King’s highway but exactly how many of the King’s Guard have you seen patrolling it? Or visiting your village for that matter? Thanek’s blood boy, I have been back in this country less than two weeks and it is more than obvious that the King has withdrawn his protection from these roads. I imagine he is more concerned with the merchant routes nowadays than with the route to the Southlands.”
“I. We, well. No-one travels far from Utmarr now.” Jerren admitted. “Excepting those who sign up.”
“Most Baronial regiments can look after themselves. In their own homeland at least. You I’m not so sure about.” He regarded Jerren for a while, the only sound the crackle of the fire and occassional call of some night dwelling beast in the trees beyond them. Jerren felt it best to stay quiet lest he provoke another comment that might leave him feeling even stupider. Eventually the soldier spoke. “What is your name, apprentice?”
“Jerren Sir. Jerren Tarrickson.”
“Well Jerren Tarrickson, I will make you an offer. You may sleep here this evening and in the morning you can take a look at my armour - some of the stitching and banding needs attention and that will pay me for the bread and the hospitality of my camp. Then, if you wish you can accompany me to Hember - it’s where I am travelling too.”
Jerren thought of the misery of the last five nights and then of the weeks that lay between this campfire and the towers of Hember.
“Might I know your name Sir?” he asked.
“You will join me on the road?” Jerren nodded. “Then you may call me Dintaga” the man allowed. “Now, get your rest. We will be breaking camp at first light.”
*
The city of Hember had originally been surrounded by water on all but its eastern side. The towering Riverwalls still stood tall above the stone buildings they protected, tapering to meet at the point where the Sandyrush and Battwa rivers converged to form the mighty Hember Flow. Today they were crowded with wooden cranes and bustling dockworkers outnumbered patrolling guards fifty to one. Riverboats arriving from the coastal trading port of Jassaria in the west bumped hulls in the fight for berthing space against smaller barges from Conmar and Herreby upriver. On the far shores of the two rivers new buildings were being raised every day, beyond the brooding protection provided by the original city.
From his vantage point at a window high in the Princes Tower King Jassiah could not see the eastern Landwall but knew full well that the main gates would be a chaotic crush of wagons funnelled in from the East Road. Many would have travelled from as far afield as the Thelmic Empire, eager to trade silks and spices with the wealthy Hember merchants. Ten years of successful campaigning against the Dromhazi of the Southlands had swelled the wealth of his capital to a greater extent than he would have dreamed possible.
A sharp knock at the door drew his attention away from his view of the bustling city spread out below him. He nodded curtly to the palace guards who flanked the doorway and one pulled the locking bar free to swing it open. A man entered. King Jassiah easily hid his distaste at the crumpled and dusty clothing and distinct smell of hard travel that hung about the newcomer like a cloak. Instead he nodded mildy in response to the man’s crisp salute. “Speak” he ordered.
“Disptaches your majesty” the man offered, holding out a sealed leather folder. The king waved dismissively.
“On the table. Sarrik, if you please?”
The rooms other occupant made his way around the large map strewn table that dominated the tower room. He was tall and broad shouldered, his close shaven grey hair cut too short to hide the several vivid scars etched into the skull beneath. On his right shoulder he wore the ornately engraved plate shoulderguard of an officer in the Kings Guard, the gold inlay identifying him as a general. He picked up the folder and looked at the messenger, still standing at attention and apparently forgotten by the King, who had turned his gaze back to the view from the window. The general offered the man his own salute.
“Dismissed lad” he said in a deep and slightly hoarse voice. “See the duty officer and take a day to rest up before you come back to me for the responses.”
“Yes General.” The messenger saluted once more and turned slightly to bow towards the King, who had his back to him. “Your majesty.” The King declined to respond so the man turned smartly on his heel and left the room.
General Sarrik moved over to a different window and quickly examined the seal upon the folder. It seemed secure, the green wax still flecked with the gritty grey sand that got everywhere in the cursed Southlands. For all that the seal of Duke Merrion, the King’s brother and commander of the campaigning regiments was imprinted clearly upon its surface. With a swift tug he cracked it open and drew forth a sheaf of papers from within.
After a few moments studying them he moved to the table and began to cross reference details against the detailed maps that covered its surface. King Jassiah turned slowly and cast his eyes across the table with apparent disinterest, although Sarrik was well aware that the King was as eager as he was for news of the campaign.
“Well Sarrik?” King Jassiah asked.
“Good news for the main part Your Majesty” the general said with evident pleasure. “Your noble brother has stormed the stronghold of Balthrar and executed the Prince who held it against him.” The King snorted derisively.
“About damn time. He’s been sieging that place for months. It should have been stormed long since. What of the populace?”
“One in ten put to the sword, no exceptions. “
“Hmm. I suspect that ‘put to the sword’ is not quite accurate. What was the last punishment that Merrion handed out to a resisting settlement Sarrik?”
The general had knew that the King had no need to be reminded, but answered dutifully. “One in ten had their hands and feet crushed with hammers and then left in the desert for the wild beasts your Majesty” he supplied.
“In sight of the stronghold as well. Merrion confided to me that he was worried that he had miscalculated the distance and that a few might actually crawl back within bowshot of the walls. Turned out to be unfounded though, the Southlands have some decidedly unpleasant fauna.”
“Nothing to match the sculpts your majesty.” The king laughed.
“Quite so general. Anything those Dromhazi can do we can surpass, even when it comes to the inherent danger of our indigenous wildlife.”
“With the fall of Balthrar we have control of the western reaches of the Southlands Sire” Sarrik prompted, hoping to get his monarch’s attention back to the maps that littered the table. Jassiah sniffed.
“I’m aware of that. What is your point?”
“Simply that we have cut their lines of supply from the supposedly neutral states beyond that region. Your noble brother requests fresh regiments to support a push into the Dromhazi heartland. He believes that another year of campaign and the entirety of the Southlands will be subdued and ready for integration into the Lithian Empire.”
“Alliance” the king corrected sharply. “The term is irrelevant anyway, for I shall be an emperor in all but name soon enough. But the Baronial Council have always grumbled enough over the simple title of ‘king’ - I see no need to give them further cause for complaint.”
“My apologies your highness” muttered Sarrik, astonished at his own slip. Lithia had been a monarchy since Baron Niall of Hember had led the Baronies to a hard won victory in the Sculptor War four hundred years ago. Typically enough today’s Barons saw little merit in the monarchy that their own ancestors had created when they pronounced Niall king at the successful culmination of the fight. Even now the title was supposed to be an honourific, with each baron retaining autonomy over their own domain. But the days of the Council ruling over the combined affairs of the Lithian baronies was long gone and Jassiah’s war against the Southlands had gone a long way to restoring the old warrior bond of comrades united against a common foe. No matter that the justification for the invasion was spurious at best -the war had ignited the old martial spirit of the Lithian lords and the ten years of plunder had not hurt either. Aside from one or two malcontents Jassiah’s war had done wonders for the credibility of a monarchy that had seemed on the verge of collapse when he took it over fifteen years ago.
Now the phrase ‘Lithian Empire’ was a common one amongst the populace and many folk, commoner and noble alike expected that the subjugation of the Southlands was but a step on the road to a glorious future. And Sarrik knew that Jassiah, for all his feinged idolance was the sort of man who could forge such a potential future into a glorious reality.
“’For the main part’ Sarrik?” The king’s unexpected question jolted the old general from his quiet reverie.
“Your majesty?” he managed in a hoarse murmur.
“You said that it was good news for the main part Sarrik” the king reminded him with a distinct hint of impatience. “What of the minor part that goes along with it?”
“Ah. It seems that Baron Walter has recalled his Fifth following the fall of the latest Dromhazi stronghold Sire” the general supplied.
“The Connmar Fifth” mused the king. “Longbowmen aren’t they?”
“Yes Sire. And good too.” Sarrik’s tone held grudging admiration. “They’ve been out there for nearly six years and their withdrawal is the main reason cited by your royal brother in support of his request for fresh regiments to be mustered from the homelands. He, ah, also requests that you persuade Baron Walter that the Fifth are too important to the campaign to be withdrawn permanently and should be returned to the fray after they have had the bare minimum of furlough.”
Jassiah nodded absently and tapped his forefinger upon the map, marking the small but central Barony of Connmar that bordered the region of Hember itself. “Indeed” he said thoughtfully. “I think that the Fifth are far better placed in the Southlands than back here in dear old Lithia.”
*
After another two days Jerren and Dintaga reached the town of Assak. Although part of the same Barony as Utmmar Jerren had never visited the place and had been expecting a settlement of towering spires and stoneclad streets. Instead they found a huddle of low wooden buildings, thatch more often rotting than not. Its streets were merely rutted mud strips clogged with carts, people and livestock. Although surrounding the settlement the wooden pallisade was sagging in places and the guards seemed to pay little attention to those passing through the gates, unless they were young and female in which case they attracted more attention than they might have wanted.
It was Utmarr, only an Utmarr that took up more space.
Dintaga seemed unperturbed, nodding politely to the guards as he and Jerren passed through the gate. His armour was no doubt familiar to them, although if they had been more observant his weapons would have been a lot less so. Jerren certainly raised no interest in his homespun basics.