The Bringer of War

The bright sun stung his eyes, more so than the beads of salty sweat that rolled into them, causing the young man to squint furiously. Shifting the heavy bag of oats on his shoulder into a more comfortable position, he continued to trudge down the dirt road, a line of dust trailing behind him in the dry air.

He was a young lad, not more than fourteen summers, with a bushy head of dark hair that seemed ludicrous on his stick thin body. He was dressed in what may have been a respectable, if simple, garment. A dark blue doublet, quilted to provide some meager protection, covered his torso, terminating just above his knees. A pair of fine black trousers were underneath, the legs draped over sturdy boots. His garments had been stained and worn with travel, and though they were well maintained the myriad patches and stitching made him look like the houseboy of a noble family in decline.

The young man continued on his path down the wide dirt road, flanked on either side by tall trees. The sun was at its zenith, meaning the long shadows they cast were not sufficient to provide the young man with much shade. He mopped his brow with the back of a dirt streaked hand, face scrunched up in annoyance.

The road grew wider as it approached a small village. Though it was a collection of less than a dozen structures, and none of them too terribly opulent at that, the boy was challenged at a crude but effective wooden gate that blocked egress into the settlement. He squinted up past the roughly hewn logs, each as stout as a man’s leg, which where bound with hemp to create the barrier. A bearded, grinning face appeared over the sharpened points of the logs, gloved hands gripping the top of the fence at either side.

“Hail, stranger,” said the man, who had perhaps seen thirty summers. “State your business or you’ll be sprouting more quills than a hedgehog!”

The young man sighed, straightened up a bit, and stated in a clear voice;

“Hector Brandywine, squire to Sir Bruno Cromwell, just returned from an errand for the same,” he said, adding under his breath “of course, you know this, as I just passed through these gates not two hours earlier.”

“And what do you bear on your back,” said the man “Hector Brandywine, squire of Sir Bruno Cromwell?”

“Oats,” said Hector, patting the rough sack on his back. “For my master’s fine steed.”

The challenger’s face scowled a bit, though his tone was still light and cheerful.

“Perhaps someone should have told your master,” he said “that in our humble village we do have a suitable repast for his nag. Could have saved you a long walk in the hot sun.”

Hector’s freckled, dirt streaked face broke into a grin.

“No doubt,” he said “I, in fact, told Sir Cromwell the same thing. Alas, he disagreed with both of us, cuffed me about, and sent me on my way to recover a bag harvested from his own fields. ”

“You confuse me, boy,” said the man guarding the gate “is your lord Cromwell’s land not a week’s travel the the East?”

“But of course,” said Hector, shrugging “but this particular sack was one I failed to recover when my onager hit a patch of rubble. Sir Cromwell was most vehement that I rectify that mistake.”

The face disappeared as the man dropped to the ground unseen behind the stout fence. Hector heard the sounds as the man fumbled with the crudely carved latch, then the fence split down the middle and opened just enough for him to squeeze through sideways.

“Thank you, kind sir,” said Hector, though as a squire from a noble family he technically outranked the common foot soldier. He bowed his head respectfully as he passed by the man.

“You are most welcome,” said the man with a grin. He wore a boiled leather breastplate, a faded insignia of some sort on its front. A short bladed sword with a well-worn handle hung at his side, the scabbard slapping against his hairy legs as he stepped out of Hector’s way.

“A moment, my good lad,” said the soldier. Hector stopped, turned about halfway and tried to keep a patient, bored expression on his face.

“Yes, my good sir?” he said.

“What is it like?” said the man. “Serving one of them. Is it true that they regularly consort with demons, and that is why their skin is blackened? From the hellfire of their infernal concubines?”

Hector laughed, seeming quite used to prejudice where his lord was concerned.

“Sir Cromwell?” he said “you must be joking! For surely, one will not find a more devout, pious devotee of the Allfather in all of the North! And as far as serving one of ‘them,’ well, from what I have gleaned from my rare converse with other squires, the work is about the same; Tedious, thankless, and none too clean.”

The soldier threw back his head and laughed, giving Hector a pat on the shoulder.

“Carry on, lad,” he said “but know that you have my pity!”

“And you mine, as well,” said Hector under his breath as he gratefully went on his way. The tiny village was abuzz with activity, no less than thirty of the King’s soldiers going about in their purple and gold tunics. Hector watched absent-mindedly as a group of six, with assistance from the peasantry, attempted to raise another wooden wall at a large gap in the tree line. Another group was splashing about in the wide, shallow creek that ran through the village, attempting to sink large flat stones below the merrily bubbling water to create a path across. The villagers either assisted the soldiers or milled nervously about, glaring at the joviality and cavalier attitude of the men at arms.

Hector arrived at his destination; A large hut with clay walls and a thatched roof, the largest in the tiny hamlet. Hector clapped before the door, setting the bag of oats on the dirt first. When there was no response, he clapped again. Sighing, he opened the door, its crude leather hinges creaking noisily.

Inside he witnessed the village elder, a painfully thin septuagenarian whose hair and teeth had long since fled, leaning over a three legged wooden table. Across its battered and splintered surface was another man, far younger and more virile, his muscled hands straining to hold down the edges of a parchment.

Hector turned his focus to the younger man. He was tall and robust, muscle packed onto a hefty frame that looked more than capable. Unlike the soldiers, villagers, and Hector himself, the man had dark brown skin, shiny with sweat. His hair was tight, black and curly, shorn close to his scalp. He wore a fine silk blue jerkin over a pair of padded leather pantaloons, a stylized symbol of an open eye near his chest. Hector scowled at the jerkin, for he had a clear memory of spending many nights scrubbing it to remove blood stains and dirt from its fine surface.

“What is it, squire?” said the man, turning his handsome face towards Hector. His nose was wider than any of the other men’s, but it looked aesthetically correct on his countenance. Muscles working in his strong jaw, the man clenched his teeth and glared from narrow eyes when no response was immediately forthcoming.

“I have just returned, sir,” he said, hefting the bag of oats.

“And?” said the man in exasperation.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir,” said Hector, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“My horse is still hungry, squire...” said the man harshly.

“Of course, Sir Cromwell,” said Hector, hastily bowing out of the one room structure.

The dark skinned man and the village elder watched as Hector scurried out of sight. The older man shook his head, a modicum of reproach in his voice when he spoke.

“You are hard on the boy, are you not Sir Bruno?” he said, voice shaking with age.

“Bah,” said Bruno, showing rows of straight, white teeth as he smiled. “I was assigned to Sir Reddings the Cold Hearted when I was a squire. He once beat me so badly, I thought he was trying to smite the black from my hide.”

“Yes, yes,” said the elder “the age old lament; Young people today have no idea how easy their lot is.”

Bruno shrugged, returning his attention to the leather parchment both men strove to keep flat on the uneven table. Markings on its aged surface depicted what may have been the village and its creek. The surrounding forest had been illustrated, and there were several dark x’s marked at seemingly random spots in the wood. Bruno’s finger tapped hard on one of them, which appeared upstream from the village.

“I believe your bandits are holed up here,” he said. “There is good access to fresh water and I know of an old redoubt remaining from past wars. Though it would be largely a ruin by now it would provide some shelter to desperate men.”

The elder nodded, tracing a line from the village to the x with his finger.

“They have grown bold,” he said “taking my granddaughter in broad daylight...”

Bruno reached across the table and clapped the man on the shoulder.

“Take heart, good Stephan,” he said with a warm expression “these reprobates will soon learn the folly of trifling with King Drakken’s loyal subjects.”

“I was surprised,” said Stephan “that his majesty took such an interest in the welfare of an admittedly unimportant village such as our own.”

Bruno straightened up, a smile fraught with pride spreading over his dark features.

“His majesty is a just and noble man,” he said confidently. “He cares for even the lowliest peasant as much as he would for the highest noble in his court.”

“Of course,” said Stephan hastily “I did not mean to insinuate anything to the contrary...”

Bruno laughed, his strong voice filling the hut and rolling over Stephan.

“Relax, old one,” he said “I am no inquisitor. His majesty sent me to help, and that is all. No one believes any of you follow the heathen religions of the South, or that any person in your village is secretly one of the Fey Folk.”

Stephan made a warding sign against evil, a look of shock crossing his wizened face.

“Please,” he said “do not speak of the Hidden Ones so! They will creep into our children’s cribs at night and steal their very breath!”

“Bah,” said Bruno, dismissively waving his arm. “The Faerie bleed and die just as any other foe. They are deceptive, their foul magic insidious, but they are not known for such wanton cruelty. ”

“Have you faced them in combat before?” said Stephan, still worried but curious as well.

“Yes,” said Bruno, his eyes narrowing “their penchant for changing shapes can create problems. One moment you are staring down your sword at a pathetic, wrinkled old wretch, and the next that form is gone, replaced by a snarling black bear. But one truth remains; Despite all of their cunning and trickery, they are not blessed with the Allfather’s divine grace. Therefore, they are defeated before they even begin.”

Stephan nodded sagely.

“And your own Templar magic is more than capable of-”

“Magic?” said Bruno, scowling. “We Templars have made no pacts with demons, we have no magic. Nor do we walk the path of the Mind, so we cannot bend spoons just by looking at them or discern your sinful, lusty thoughts.”

“Forgive me,” said Stephan “for I meant no offense.”

“None has been taken, good man,” said Bruno.

“However,” said Stephan “once in my youth I spied a Templar beset by brigands near Helmsley’s Shire. His strength was uncanny, and seemed unnatural to my young eyes. I assume it was merely some knowledge or training that allowed him to shatter their weapons as if they were glass, with but a touch from his magnificent sword...”

“Bah!” said Bruno “surely you exaggerate, old man! It is true, we Templars are infused with Heartfire, but it is our faith in the Allfather that gives us true strength.”

“Heartfire, my lord?” said Stephan, curiosity overcoming his reluctance to antagonize the knight.

Bruno grinned, rolling up his silken sleeve to display his toned and muscular ebony arm. Organic, curving designs had been tattooed on his skin, wrapping about his forearm and terminating just below his wrist. Stephan’s eyes went wide as a subtle spark of color ran through the line, zipping about the narrow path on his skin.

“First, they heat silver until it boils,” he said “then it is infused with secret reagents and blessed by priests. They use a long, thick wooden needle to infuse it into your skin, all while a dozen holy men chant the Conqueror’s Prayer.”

“That sounds,” said Stephan, clearing his throat “rather painful.”

Bruno looked up at him, a fierce smile on his face.

“Excruciating.” he said.

Both men’s eyes shot towards the door as someone began to frantically ring the heavy iron bell which served as the village’s alarm. Stephan looked pale, as if he might faint, but a gleam of pleasure tainted Bruno’s eager expression.

“They are bold,” he said to the elder. Raising his voice, he thundered “SQUIRE!”

Outside, they heard alarmed shouts and running feet. The soldier’s military barking mingled with the villager’s plaintive cries of terror. Bruno turned about and picked up a scabbarded long sword from where it was leaning against the clay wall. The scabbard had been opulently decorated with Bruno’s personal seal, a lion reared up on its hind legs. He gripped the brass wire hilt, fist an inch from the cross guard, and unsheathed about six inches of it. His reflection stared back at him from the gleaming surface, and he was surprised by the look of joy in his eyes. Those eyes darkened a moment later as he turned towards the door and bellowed.

“SQUIRE!” he shouted once more. The door to the hut burst open and Hector stumbled inside, burdened by heavy steel armor. A gauntlet dropped out of the mix and clanged across the hard packed dirt floor, drawing more ire from the knight.

“Sorry, sir,” said Hector, hastily moving to help Bruno don the metal clothing. His hands shook with nervousness, hampering his efforts.

“Calm yourself, squire,” said Bruno, arms held out the sides as Hector struggled with the straps to his breastplate. “Fear is good, it keeps your mind sharp, but only if you don’t let it rule you.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Hector, trying without much success to keep his hands from shaking.

“I have not lost a squire yet,” said Bruno with a wry grin “I don’t intend to start now.”

“Of course not, sir,” said Hector, moving lower to attach Bruno’s silver leg greaves. The lad had spent many long hours polishing the smooth surface, and he was secretly proud of how the armor gleamed even in the dim light of the elder’s hut.

The tumult outside had reached a new high, as booted feet marched past the hut, heading for the gate. Bruno’s brown eyes followed the sound, alarm crossing his features.

“Hurry, boy,” said Bruno.

“Almost...done!” said Hector, standing up straight and checking his handiwork. Bruno was now clad from neck to foot in gleaming full plate armor. Highly customized and articulated, Bruno seemed to move easily as he checked the fit. Satisfied, he bowed his head slightly so Hector could place a helm over it. The helm had a y shaped opening on the face, framing his eyes nose and mouth in steel. A bright blue plume stuck from the pointed top, a symbol of Bruno’s station. Fierce eyes glared from out of the helm at Hector.

“What is wrong, my lord?” he said shakily.

Bruno suddenly reached back and slapped the lad across the face, none too gently. Metal disks had been welded onto the knuckles on his gauntlet, which drew a bit of blood at Hector’s mouth.

“My shield!” said Bruno.

“Sorry, sir,” said Hector, running out of the hut. Bruno followed a moment later, making a beeline for the crude wooden fortifications at the north end of the village. The soldiers had taken up position behind the barricade, five rows of six men abreast. They waited with military discipline for Bruno to clank in front of them. Several arrows came sailing over the fence to bury their heads into the soft dirt. Neither the knight nor his troop so much as flinched at the errantly aimed missiles.

“Men,” he said “we are outnumbered, hot, and thirsty on this fine summer day. But water will not quench our thirst, will it?”

“NO!” came the lusty reply, which brought a smile to his face. He continued to speak as Hector dashed towards him, bearing an ornate steel shield on his arm.

“What is the one thing that will slake our parched lips?” he said.

“BLOOD!” they shouted as one. Bruno smiled and shook his head as Hector strapped the shield to his forearm.

“I truly pity our enemies this day,” he said. Turning towards the half dozen peasants tasked with swinging open the heavy gate, he nodded grimly. The wooden gate scraped over the dirt, kicking up dust. Bruno unsheathed his gleaming blade, thrust it forward as if he would skewer their still distant enemy.

“Charge!” he said in a howl, and his soldiers surged forth. Out on the dirt road, their adversaries raised their own voices in kind. A mass of humanity, prickly with crude metal tipped wooden spears and clad in roughly tanned furs, awaited them. The dense foliage on either side of the dirt road funneled the two groups towards each other to clash with the sound of metal on metal. Bruno, who remained near the gates, strained to see through the cloud of dust kicked up by their melee. It appeared that his men were more than holding their own as bodies and weapons were hewn with savagery from their path. Blood soon stained the dirt, not much of it from the King’s men.

Hector stood near his lord, wearing quilted armor that made him sweat anew. He peered up at Bruno, amazed at how the man could stand in the hot sun while clad in steel and seem perfectly at ease.

“The bandits fall quickly before their skill,” he said, a note of pride in his young voice.

“I am not certain that these are bandits,” said Bruno.

“But the elder said...” began Hector.

“There are too many of them,” said Bruno, shaking his head “not well armed...and why attack in broad daylight? Why do they continue to march into their deaths, instead of fleeing as criminals are wont to do?”

“They are fools,” said Hector, shrugging.

“Are they?” said Bruno, his eyes narrowing.

The king’s men continued their assault, easily pressing the badly organized mob backwards. Hector was about to point out that nearly half their number had fallen when he heard a sinister tumult from the woods near the road. Bruno heard it as well, taking a step forward and bellowing a warning.

“ARCHERS!” he shouted. “Take cover!”

He watched, panic in his voice, as a hail of arrows darkened the air, arcing out from the treeline and drilling into his men. There was no cover from the assault, and half of Bruno’s men were down, some screaming, some dead. Their adversaries slew nearly as many of their own men in the strike, though Bruno found little comfort in the fact.

Emboldened by the sight of their seemingly implacable foe laid low, the attackers gave a great shout and charged forward. Though Bruno’s men accounted for themselves well, they were too badly outnumbered and began to fall one by one.

“Enough,” said Bruno, and his lips began to move in a prayer even as his feet propelled him forward. Hector swallowed hard, called after his lord to stop.

Bruno broke into a trot, then a run, drawing his sword and angling his trajectory towards the nearest line of enemies. A battle cry erupted from his throat, drawing their attention.

“For the King!” screamed Bruno, crashing into the nearest man with his shield. His foe was knocked backwards over a dozen feet, rolling head over heels until he lay in a crumpled heap in the bloody dirt. Bruno thrust his blade cleanly through the breast of another adversary, his weapon cleaving both the man’s chest and the crude hide armor protecting it. He withdrew the gory blade smoothly while blocking a wooden spear thrust with his shield. He spun in a low crouch and took the man’s legs out from under him—literally. The maimed warrior could only lay in the dirt and scream as his severed limbs twitched about wildly a short distance away.

Hector watched, enthralled, as Bruno laid waste all about him. If the soldiers had been impressive in their martial display, the knight was awe inspiring. Brute strength and speed married with polished skill and discipline in a deadly dance that left severed limbs and sundered weapons in his wake. The remaining soldiers, only a handful still able to fight, were inspired by the iron hewn path he made through the mob, and were soon forming up behind him in a wedge.

The squire’s attention was drawn behind him by angry shouts from the villagers. He was puzzled by the dark scowls on some faces, even as others seemed shocked at every slain bandit. His own eyes narrowed at their inappropriate response.

“What’s wrong with you all?” said Hector. “Can you not see that your enemies fall before Sir Bruno as wheat before the scythe? You should be cheering!”

“I’ll not cheer this slaughter,” said one portly aged villager, leaning on a pitchfork.

Hector’s expression grew grim. He drew the short blade at his own side and turned his back to the clash of arms.

“These men are not bandits,” he said “and they are no strangers to you, either...”

The farmer looked frightened, turning his bleary eyed gaze to Stephan. The elder could not meet Hector’s eyes, instead staring at the dry ground.

“Treasonous dogs!” shouted Hector, taking a step towards the old man. “How dare you murder the king’s men, under the guise of needing help?”

“We...” said the elder “we are not...”

Hector stood mere inches from the man, sword tip raised to jab into his chin.

“Look me in the eyes, old one,” he said. “Speak the truth, and you may yet save your skin.”

Stephan struggled to raise his head, eyes full of shame and fear.

“They...” he said “they offered us coin to lure you here. The land has been plagued by drought, the meager sustenance it gives us not enough to-”

“Your reasons matter not,” said Hector. “Tell me, who are ‘they?’”

Behind him, Bruno led his ragtag group against the last of their foes who neither fled nor lay still in the dirt. Mindful of the hidden archers who may or may not have fled, he did not pursue, instead ordering the survivors back to the protection of the village. He stalked towards Stephan, shiny armor covered with blood. Bits of viscera dripped from the tip of his sword which he shook free with a twist of his wrist. Stephan stared at the blood drenching the blade and swallowed hard.

“Want to tell me the truth, old man?” said Bruno, not unkindly. “I am prepared to be merciful, if I think you speak no lies.”

Stephan’s lip quivered, and he looked to his followers in desperation.

“Answer me!” said Bruno harshly. Stephan nodded, and Hector removed his blade so the man could speak.

“I shoulder all the blame,” said Stephan. “It was my decision.”

“Bah,” said Bruno “you are too dedicated to the welfare of your people to take such risks without some outside motivation.”

Stephan suddenly seemed angry, actually taking a step towards Bruno.

“Yes,” he said “I am dedicated to our welfare! And that is why I have betrayed you, my lord.”

Bruno looked confused, but more angry than ever.

“Explain,” he said “quickly.”

“King Drakken taxes us too greatly!” said Stephan “we cannot keep watching our children’s ribs stick out like bare branches! Our bellies gnaw with hunger than we cannot sate! Forgive me, Sir Cromwell, you seem a noble and just man, but the King is naught but a tyrant!”

“I see,” said Bruno, eyes growing softer behind his helmet. “And you will swear an oath that it was your doing, as elder, that led these people to their traitorous ruin?”

Stephan paled, looking down towards the dirt.

“I swear,” he said in a tiny voice “my lord.”

“Then,” said Bruno, using his thumb and forefinger to clean blood from his blade “it will be only your own life that is forfeit, rather than the entire village. Bind him, and prepare to take our leave of this wretched place.”

The soldiers moved to comply, none too gently as the memory of their fallen brethren was still fresh. Hector moved to take Bruno’s helmet as the swarthy man slid it off his sweaty head.

“The old man is lying,” said Hector “there are many here who would do us harm if they could.”

“Then,” said Bruno, slapping the young man in the arm “let us be off before they muster the courage!”

Hector looked about himself grimly, wondering if the right side had truly claimed victory that day.