by 5kops
So far, my best efforts in securing aid hare fallen on deaf ears. Or so I thought, until I received a notice stating that a group of Bre'Dmorians would be arriving in our town. For this I am grateful, my lord, but am still concerned. Although I am no military strategist, I do not think one company will be enough. Please request more aid from the Academy, or at the least ask for a small contingent of men from Stormwind.
May your ride be swift and safe.
Count Oslov Custafson
"Is this accurate?" asked Areck. The note sounded dire, but if the scenario was so bad, Areck wondered why the duke hadn't sent military aid.
"I was only stationed there for two nights, sir," said Lysen. "However, the town is abuzz with talk of farms being stripped down and burned, while entire families have disappeared."
In the Academy, it was standard schooling to study the denizens of Aryth, especially those that opposed the church. Though the list of monstrous creatures extended into several volumes of text, there were five main noted enemies: shadow dragons, ferryll, ogres, dark elves, and ores.
Areck had studied the orcish race on several occasions, and he knew the tell-tale signs of their presence. Dragons wouldn't have left anything standing, dark elves would have killed even-thing for sport, ogres would have eaten everything, and there was no way ferryll would be so far south.
Areck handed the note to Redmon who scanned it before handing it back with a grim nod.
"The count is right," Redmon said. "If we encounter orcs, our small contingent of men will be insufficient."
"Lord Silvershield asked that Baron Marqel send a courier back to the Academy to inform the High Lightbringer of our current situation," Areck said, scanning the horizon. "He also asked for reinforcements."
"The fact that we are here means Lord Lightbringer does not see this situation as a threat; nor did Lord Silvershield, sir," Redmon said.
Areck stroked his chin in thought. "Squire Lysen, did you ask why the count sent you east, rather than to Aresleigh?" he asked.
"He seemed to think that the request for aid would be considered more important if a Bre'Dmorian was to initiate it," Lysen explained.
Areck sighed. He knew the answer to his question before he asked it. The count had asked for reinforcements several times and had been met with little success, so the noble lord would attempt to use a Bre'Dmorian knight to achieve what he needed.
So how shall I deal with this situation? Areck asked himself. He knew that if his small company continued to ride towards Brenly, they would be asked to deal with the circumstances. His rag-tag group of squires was not ready to engage such an enemy. My only goal is to protect my men.
He looked up to see Redmon looking at him, awaiting orders. Areck did his best to hide his discomfort.
They are looking to me for answers, he thought. Well, I don't know what to do. What would Lord Silvershield do?
If he turned them back to Stormwind, he would lose all credibility with his men, though it would be safer. The Code crawled inside his mind: at all costs, protect the kingdom from chaos.
If I recall my men, I disobey another direct order, Areck thought. Such an order would show my weakness in the face of danger.
Areck did the first thing he knew every commander would do: he asked for his lieutenant's opinion. "I am not sure the risk is worth it, Lieutenant. Yet, I see our duty plainly calling," Areck said, turning his attention to Redmon.
“I think it would be unwise to recall our company, sir,” replied Redmon, taking the hint by answering the masked question. “If we head back, it will be at least another week before we could send word to the Academy.”
Areck considered Redmon's reasoning. Though he faced a tough choice, he needed to obey orders and provide what aid he could. Resolve washed over him. If he could not make the tough choices and remove personal feeling, he could never be a true commander.
"That is what I think as well," Areck said. "Judging by this thoroughbred, the count has a stable full of such beasts. We can ride into the town and offer what help we can. We will make sure they are somewhat fortified, and I will prepare a request for reinforcements, detailing the town's status."
His choice was not easy. Areck was taking a gamble with this decision. If the count asked for him to lead a small party of men in search of the marauders, especially without first consulting the High Lightbringer, this would be a dangerous move. Yet Areck felt confident that his men would respect his decision to offer help first and send for aid as a secondary measure.
"You should be aware, sir," Lysen said, turning his mount west, "that the town of Brenly is in a terrible state."
"What do you mean, Squire Lysen?" Areck asked.
"It's just that . . . well. . . we have nothing to fear, but the people are . . . sick."
"Sick?" asked Redmon in alarm. "What do you mean, sick?"
"It is hard to explain, sir," Lysen said in grim tones. "I never got a chance to talk to a physician."
"Brenly wasn't a wealthy town when I was accepted into the Academy nine years ago," Areck said, perturbed that the young rider had not offered this information earlier. "Such townships are known to contract the plague or the weeping fever."
After several moments of silence, Areck gazed up to see the rider looking at him in appraisal. It was an uncomfortable feeling, everyone counting on his decisive action.
"Squire Lysen," Areck began, "you are welcome to rejoin our company or ride back and alert the count that we are coming."
"I would prefer to ride under a Bre'Dmorian command," said the young man.
"Take some water, then, and let the others know that we will ride towards Brenly within the hour," Areck replied.
Areck watched the young man dismount and move to sit with the small circle of squires, each greeting him with warmth. He felt his under-lieutenant's eyes boring into him.
"What are you thinking, Redmon?" asked Areck with a sideways glance.
"If his reports are accurate, we have a problem, sir," said Redmon with a shrug. "We have no idea how far this sickness has spread, nor if it has affected the local garrison. If we are dealing with plague, there is nothing we can do outside of quarantining the sick and burning whole portions of the town."
"Do you think we should head back to Stormwind and request aid from there?" Areck asked. It seemed that his second-in-command, though young, was also very practical.
"No, sir," replied Redmon with hesitation. "I think you made the correct decision. If we do not carry out our orders, all of us will be branded cowards in the face of duty, especially us officers."
"What do you think, then?" asked Areck, regarding Redmon with respect.
"I think we should approach Brenly with caution," said Redmon. "I can tell you think the same thing; you are also worried about what will happen. And that even though we are Bre'Dmorians, there is not a true knight among our number." Redmon paused before continuing, "I am not so stout to admit the thought of losing more friends doesn't worry me some. If we continue this path, sir, we will eventually be called upon to track down ores, and we both know that there will be casualties, if that happens."
"A very candid account, Lieutenant," Areck said. "Since we are in agreement, I will rely on you to get things in order once we reach the town. There is a chance that things will already be so, but just to make sure, you will need to inspect the barracks and give me a report on the garrison."
The lieutenant nodded with respect. With a quick salute, the man marched towards the small circle of squires now deep in conversation. Redmon went to his stallion, unpacked some dried meat, took several swigs of water, and began to dish out orders with authority.
A year younger than me and already a leader; Areck thought. He felt a certain pride that he had done an adequate job of choosing his supporting officer. Moreover, the man supported him.
Areck approached his charger, planted a foot in the stirrup, and pulled himself up. It was time to remove the lethargic aura from his company.<
br />
It was time to ride hard into Brenly.
20
THE BRE'DMORIANS rode west out of the forest and into Brenly, the easternmost township between Aresleigh and Stormwind Keep. It was a small town, one that had been set upon by plague, starvation, and madness, which had ravaged the population piecemeal. Though no one alive could remember those days, it had once been the foremost trading outpost between the duchy of Aresleigh and Natalinople, and in those days, very prosperous. Now the town had been reduced to ramshackle brick buildings that stood crookedly against the landscape, all that was left of ancient dwarven masonry.
Areck paid no mind to the fact that he saw no guardsmen or welcome from the count. It was likely that the ranking noble did not expect an answer from Stormwind for several more days, and therefore was not prepared. In a way, Areck preferred it that way. He considered it better that Count Gustafson had not come to greet them; it gave him a chance to see the machinations of the town before he made any decisions regarding its people.
It had been ten years since he had last visited the town of his birth. In truth, he barely recognized the layout, as recurrent raids of bold ores had laid waste over the last decade, reducing the desire of nobles to serve it and the ability of the municipality to maintain itself. Mysteriously it had never been destroyed but survived each raid with unified grace, relying on the capital to provide what aid it could.
I wonder why they never built walk. Areck thought, looking at several makeshift attempts to fortify the town.
Truth be told, it amazed him that anyone lived here at all—being part of a dying community must wear thin on a man. He tried to remember his days in Brenly, but nothing remained of those years. All that came to mind was tragedy, making him feel numb. He did his best never to think of the brutal murder of his parents at the hands of marauders.
It seemed so long ago that he had been saved by a drunken Bre'Dmorian, Lord Silvershield, who had stumbled on his small unconscious body. That event had led him into the Bre'Dmorian Academy and his continued rapport with the man had who saved his life. The thought of the knight-captain brought a vivid flurry of emotion that nearly ran him into a small group of civilians.
To Areck's surprise, the appearance of knights did little to cheer the gathering. In fact, resentment seemed to form as the riders paraded through the main mud track which the town used for a road. It almost seemed like the people hated them for the life they assumed a Bre'Dmorian led— pampered and easy.
That these people disliked him for his life of servitude made Areck cringe. He could see it on their faces. None would recognize him, yet they imagined his life full of gold, treasure, and power.
Areck felt a hand grab at his leather boot—a young boy was looking at the carved stirrup of his war-saddle and whispering to himself.
It was then that Areck noticed even-one was staring at him, resplendent in his leather and chain armor. Though his leather breastplate held no intricate patterns, the fine craftsmanship was evident and the people accepted him as a knight. He became conscious of the fact that his white cloak held no denotations as a ranking officer, lacking the insignificant clasps that the lower ranking knights and squires wore.
To make matters more confusing, the entire company of riders were clad the same as Areck, although most wore unmatched sets of chain and scale rather than leather and chain.
Areck's mount snorted and picked its way past another group of commoners. As the company of riders passed a rat-faced beggar, he heard whispers about the fact that his white cape lacked rank insignias, as did those of the entire contingent of men that followed him. The average man could be fooled by shining armor and a chivalrous attitude, but even commoners knew that a knight was defined by his cloak. His field-promoted rank of knight-captain should have earned him a golden crown set with a pair of crisscrossing longswords.
Areck did his best to act nonchalant as he glanced to his right. Redmon rode with eyes locked ahead, ignoring the unpleasant crowd.
To anyone untrained in the Bre'Dmorian way, they might have even been a pair of official knights if not for their youthful faces and unmarked cloaks. Both men radiated authority that made people draw their breath and whisper in confusion.
It wasn't until Areck noticed a small congregation of elderly men dressed in tailored linens that he began to breathe. The count had heard of their arrival after all. He took another glance at the crowd and hoped none took his exhalation as arrogance. He almost remembered thinking so long ago that knights were an arrogant breed who thought themselves superior to low-born peasants. It usually bred resentment.
Lord Silvershield had lectured him several times on the use of temperance; young men often falsely believed that since a knight followed the will of God, triumph was a foregone conclusion. It was something Areck had always tried to take to heart.
Areck hoped that as they waited, the expressions of his company would mask their concern. Soon enough the count would find his way through the crowd and learn that he had been sent a company of squires rather than veteran warriors. At that point, all pretenses would fail. It would be up to Areck to persuade the nobleman that he was a capable commander placed in charge by a Bre'Dmorian knight-captain. Areck could only hope that his men would stand by his side; however strong their belief might be that he was unworthy of such an honor, they all would have to assist the count in whatever way he could until he could request reinforcements.
Areck knew that many people, even most knights, saw themselves as heroes; heroes that would be needed to deal with the problems in Brenly. I need to make sbow of authority, he thought. If he was going to try to sell his command as heroic, he knew he needed to plant the seed.
"Squire Lysen, to the front!" Areck shouted to the young man who had rode out of Brenly earlier that afternoon to approach his command for aid.
Areck watched the tall young man come out of line and ride forward. If he was going to play the part of a real commander, he needed to treat his men thus.
The act garnered the results he desired; the entire crowd went silent.
Perhaps I should give an order that will break, up this welcome, Areck thought. Though he was still unsure if the squire would follow his lead, Areck knew the man was a Bre'Dmorian. Actually, it is not what Lysen thinks that bothers me. It is that I think it myself. The thought came unbidden as he sat deciding what to do.
Areck was about to issue an order for the man to trot ahead and offer a formal escort to the count, when his warhorse stumbled in a muddy divot. Fortunately he had not been wearing a visor, and his numerous saddle bags and weapons rattled against the thick flank of the charger. In his haste to arrive at Brenly, Areck had almost forgotten that his charger's fedock was wounded. The fact he had forgotten angered him.
Areck rubbed his beardless chin and stroked the neck of the stallion, issuing clicking commands. Once he was sure that the stallion was stable Areck turned his attention back to Squire Lysen.
“The good count will need an escort from his manor,” Areck said. “Please ride ahead and clear a way for him.”
"It will be so, Captain," Lysen responded with a nod, using Areck's formal title, the first time any man in the company had addressed him with more than a "Yes, sir."
Pleased that his men recognized the situation and were playing along, Areck dismounted, coming face to face with several grimy men, their breath stinking of cheap ale.
He could not help but stare at the dirty, torn clothing of Brenly's men and women. He had been so absorbed with his entrance that he had not even noticed the sickness that Lysen had mentioned. Up close, he could smell it. As he looked into the feverish faces, he could see that the eyes held a yellowish tinge, as did the skin. In fact, most of the onlookers looked feverish, even delirious.
He recognized the weeping fever, the plague that killed one half of those it infected, and passed through unsanitary areas like wildfire. In pity, Areck began to reach out to a small child in the last stages of the virus w
hose eyes leaked small streams of viscous blood.
He silently cursed himself and withdrew his hand. The child took the action with excitement and dug his head into a young woman's tattered gown, peering out shyly. It was a common saying that the Bre'Dmorians could offer help but not friendship, which only got in the way of duty. His ethos was in conflict. He was to protect the weak at any cost. Though disease could not break its way through a Bre'Dmorian's divine protection, neither could he destroy it. It seemed that protecting the weak meant offering a hand in friendship, a word of comfort, a look of hope.
That rags hung loosely on frail frames unnerved him. He wondered how much food was available, and when—or if—these people ate. Part of him wanted to untie his saddlebags, remove his military rations, and throw it to the crowd. It would probably be the best meal they had in months.
A sudden thought reared in his mind. How did the duke allow this happen? How can God allow this happen?
"Out of the way, you," a healthy man growled, shouldering an elderly lady out of the way.
Areck shook himself. He had been very close to giving away his rations. He knew it was wrong, as the Code proclaimed, but still it was a strong desire to right the injustice that these people suffered.
Just another sign of my inadequacies, he thought angrily. Those that doubt my abilities are right; I should hare uerer been accepted into the Academy.
His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion as Squire Lysen returned with a group. A short, bald man with sweat beading on his forehead marched past the diseased peasants to the waiting company. Though Areck had never met Count Gustafson, he could recognize an important noble a mile away. The man bore an aura of practical experience and therefore could be considered a commander. The count was followed by several burly guardsmen, all armed and armored to the teeth.