by Eric Smith
Far to the north of the capital city of the Kingdom of Salecia a fortress sat upon the frontier. The name of the fortress was Caer Draeth and it had stood a silent guard against the northern tribes of barbarians for centuries. The soldiers who manned the battlements of Caer Draeth had changed, some retiring to a quieter life, some dying with the spears of painted tribesmen in their chest, but never had the fortress fallen or failed to protect the southern lands from the barbarians.
There were only two ways to reach the fortress and neither of them was appealing to the faint of heart. The main way wound along a treacherous trail barely wide enough for a single wagon, the right side of the trail was a sheer rock face that rose almost a hundred feet to the top above, and the left side of the trail was a drop of almost a thousand feet down to the riverbed below. The second approach to the fortress could barely even be counted, and it wasn’t by many who knew of it. It consisted of a basket type seat of wicker and a series of pulleys and ropes descending down to that same riverbed.
Caer Draeth was built to last and to withstand a prolonged siege in the unlikely event that the barbarians could ever organize enough to mount one. It had its own deep wells that came out of the mountains surrounding it, and storehouses full of flour and grain; enough for many seasons. Caer Draeth’s walls were stone cut from the mountains themselves almost five feet thick and thirty high. Battlements ran the length of the wall made of solid oak and more stone for support. Built on top of a ledge at the southern end of the valley, it was more or less built on top of stone as well, making it near to impossible to tunnel beneath.
On this beautiful day in April a cool breeze blew through the valley and over the battlements ruffling the hair of the soldiers on watch. An observer seeing them for the first time might notice that these were not spit polished soldiers that one might see in a garrison in other parts of the Kingdom. Their chain mail under their breast plates showed signs of being mended in spots, and some of the breast plates themselves had been dented, scratched and hammered out again in the forge within the Fortress. Some wore helmets and some did not. Some wore a cloak and some did not.
Their commander, Marcus Taxo, General of the 3rd, 12th, and 18th Legions, Marshal of the North, valued the abilities of his soldiers far above their appearance, and this far out in the middle of nowhere, he could get away with that. He had some of the finest most experienced soldiers in the Kingdom, their skills kept sharp through constant skirmishes with the tribesmen to the north. Their endurance and stamina constantly honed by marching up and down mountains in full gear and the very act of surviving the harsh winters that could easily kill a strong man trapped outside overnight with no shelter. “I’d rather have a soldier as ugly as sin that can fight, than a useless pretty one” his men had heard him say many times over the years.
Today, the unlucky men whose turn it was to walk the battlements found it hard to pay attention to the dull and unmoving landscape out in front of them with all the activity down in the central yard of the fortress. Their eyes were drawn to the entertainment below where a crowd of soldiers stood around two combatants, cheering and placing bets, coin changing hands seemingly every time the two men came together and exchanged blows.
The combatants circled each other warily now, having long since tested each other for weaknesses and found none. Both were stripped to the waist with their chests heaving and drenched in sweat despite the cold mountain air.
The first man was dark of hair and well muscled, standing over six feet tall. His hair was as short as the four day stubble on his face and his skin had the weathered look of someone who spends their time outside. His hands were as calloused as any farmer’s or blacksmith’s and every time he landed a blow the crowd would cheer, clearly identifying him as the favorite. His forearms were crisscrossed with the scar tissue of many old sword wounds and there was a long jagged looking scar that ran along the right side of his ribs from a spear thrust.
His opponent stood easily six inches taller and anyone could see outweighed him by fifty pounds. If the first man was muscular, this great bear of a man with his long, blonde hair and beard that fell down to his chest, both held together by leather cords, was freakishly large. His fists were almost twice the size of a normal man’s, and the rumor around the fortress was that a horse which had bitten him once had been knocked to its knees by one mighty blow. There was a puckered scar near his right shoulder from an arrow and as many scars or more along his arms as the smaller man. A stranger to the fortress would have bet everything he had on this man to win the fight in short order.
So enthralled by the competition below were those on watch that they never saw the rider fast approaching the gates of the fortress, not until he was close enough that the sound of hoof beats on stone drew their attention back to the front with a startled jerk. Scanning the horizon and the surrounding landscape they assured themselves that he was alone.
Adain, a sergeant with almost two decades in the Legion and a veteran of so many battles he had lost count peered down at the rider as he leaned half on his spear and half on the battlement before him. Never seen any good news arriving this way Adain thought. The rider was coming on fast urging his horse to more and more speed and as he got closer Adain could make out the distinctive markings of a Royal Messenger. Turning to the men at the gate thirty yards to his left Adain called “Messenger approaching, open the gates!”
The thick wooden gates creaked open barely enough to admit the rider as he blew through them not slowing at all until he was inside the yard and yanked sharply on the reins. As the horse came to a halt, its mouth foaming with white spittle at the edges the messenger vaulted from the saddle to land beside the horse. Tossing the reins to a nearby soldier the messenger said “I have urgent business, where is the General?” To which the man gestured over at the group in the center of the yard as he caught the reins.
Adain shook his head, good way to kill a horse pushing it like that, he thought. Adain watched as the messenger walked briskly across the yard to the group and upon nearing it cupped a hand to his mouth, calling loudly in a commanding voice in order to be heard over the cheering crowd “Silence! I am Jorah Verus, messenger of the King, where is the General?”
The group slowly turned to face him and cheers grew quiet, those who didn’t hear him instead turning to see what drew their comrade’s attention. As if on cue the men parted a little in front of Jorah and he could see the two fighters standing, chests still heaving, sweat and blood dripping from them. The way that the two men watched him began to make Verus a little nervous; the way that all the men watched him began to make him nervous.
The smaller of the two men said “What do you want, Lieutenant? Speak.”
“Where is General Taxo, soldier?”
“You speak to him, now, deliver your message.”
It took a moment for Verus to process this and then his heart skipped a beat and he fell to a knee “Sir, forgive me. I did not recognize you.” He extended a hand upwards bearing a scroll case, sealed at both ends with wax and bearing the Royal Seal of an eagle gripping in one talon an olive branch, and in the other an arrow.
Marcus walked to him and gripping the scroll case in his right hand he clasped Verus’s forearm with his left and pulled him to his feet with a small smile saying “Get up man, as you can see, we stand on little formality and ceremony here in the asshole of nowhere”, which brought a laugh from most of the gathered soldiers.
Slapping Verus on the back Marcus turned and called to the blonde giant who he had been fighting moments before, “Bear”, Marcus called.
“Sir”, the giant gave in response.
“Get this man some water and a place to rest and wash up, then meet me in my quarters.”
“Yes Sir”, Bear said, turning his head to look at Verus “Follow me”.
As the two men began walking towards one of the outbuildings bearing a sign above the door showing a mug of ale and a haunch of meat Marcus looked around at the still wa
iting soldiers “Show is over lads, back to work the lot of you!” he chided them with a smile.
There was much grumbling as the men dispersed and that brought a large grin to Marcus’s face. An old weapons instructor of his when he was at the academy, a man who had more medals than anyone that Marcus had met before or since, and was only an instructor because of an injury to his knee that forced him to limp, had once told Marcus “Never worry about your men as long as they’re complaining. It’s a soldier’s job to bitch and moan. If they don’t, you aren’t doing something right and then I would worry.”
As Marcus broke the seal on the tube and withdrew the parchment he couldn’t help but feel content. Life is good he thought. The air was crisp and clean, his men loved him and he relished it, loving them in turn like little brothers. He wanted for nothing. There were assignments that would have granted him greater responsibility than this backwater. Some that would have had him rubbing elbows with the Lords and Ladies of the land. But that wasn’t for him and he knew it, that’s why he had fought many times over the last twelve years to remain here whenever orders arrived for him to be reassigned elsewhere. At heart he was a soldier’s soldier. Without a war, without someone to fight he wouldn’t be happy, and besides he thought, I fucking hate politics.
As Marcus scanned the parchment through, his mood darkened. When he reached the bottom he rolled it back up and placed it in the tube, and then stood staring off into nothing for a few minutes while a cold chill seemed to spread through his whole body.
To Sergeant Adain, watching from his place on the battlements of Caer Draeth, this alone was good enough confirmation for him that no good came from messengers who rode like that. Adain shook his head and turned back to the empty landscape of the valley before him. A valley that no longer seemed as bright and cheerful as it had just minutes ago.
Fuck me, Marcus thought, the King is dead.
Chapter 1
“Leadership is often a question of simply choosing the right person to carry out a specified task. The simple act of choosing this man over that man can affect the outcome of wars; can bring nations to their knees. People give me much undue credit I fear. I am simply a better judge of character than most.” - From the Journal of Bayard Soloman