Collection Two, Dreams of a Concord

Dawn

Sjors mounted his horse prepared for him outside the Cathedral doors. The Zealot’s camp had been moved with only some rats being hunted by catchers remaining. Albert Pike, his secondhand, rode beside him.

“I had the men readied for the march onto Duranet. Nine hundred or so I judged were ready. Rest are still a rabble who can hardly swing a club.” Albert told him as they rode at a casual pace towards the Western Gate.

“Their equipment?” Sjors asked.

“Half or so have polearms, almost all of them have mail. The other half have a motley of shorter arms. Shortswords, clubs, handaxes and the like.”

“They can march in good order?”

“I wouldn’t have chosen them otherwise.”

“Alright, get the rest of the men drilling. I want them in good order when Duranet has fallen.”

“I’m not sure about when Duranet has fallen but I’ll try my best Sjors.”

“You damn better.”

“May the dice favor you.”

“The same to you.”

Sjors rode ahead of Albert. When he came to the Western Gate he saw the Column he had requested assemble. Three men wide it extended a great deal from the Gatehouse. Ramme and his Zealots could be seen in the van, most did not even carry weapons. Rather they carried braziers lit by their own flames. Priests toured up and down the van delivering sermons and occasionally they would break out in religious hymn.

Behind them were the first Guard of the Concord who were readied for conflict. A far more dour column of middle-aged and even some spare older men. Assembled in a motley of equipment from their various tours of service. Some old mercenaries whether in service to the Roselions or across the Lake in the northerly wars. Others men who had at one point served as a Retainer to a lord and then relocated to Baefivar for whatever reason might have pleased them.

Sjors admiration of the force he now commanded was interrupted by the calling of Goedarr,

“Lord! Lord Sjors!” 

“Yes?”

“You requested I and my daughter meet you here, how might we serve this great assembly of men?”

“Go to Bomel, convince the King there to support our cause.”

“Bomel? Is there not a blockade at Neracon?”

“There is but I wager you’re a resourceful fellow.”

“Ah. Well-” Goedarr hesitated. “Your will be done, Lord Sjors.”

“Now off with you. It is an urgent matter and I intend for you to be quick at it.”

“Quick at it.” He nodded and was off at his strange run. He passed Sjors back into the city.

Sjors rode past the men to the head of the Column where Bishop Ramme was mounted upon a Mule.

“Sjors! First Guard-General! We are ready to take up the sword in the One’s name!” The Bishop proclaimed as he came to the side of the Zealots.

“Right then, On the March. To Duranet. Quick Pace!”

“To Duranet. Quick Pace!” A Priest called behind him.

The Order echoed down the line and the Column began its march. Hardly in unison as Sjors’ old Company had once made its way. Men lagged in parts which gave it a rippling effect as they made their way past Sjors. It was embarrassing in a way but it was what was at hand. Duranet was soon to be freed.

-|-|-

What should have been a four days march for Sjors’ host took ten. Camp was set a half-day’s march from Duranet and her immediate contados. No reports from Bishop Ramme and his van from contact along the march there. Though after the column had nearly dissolved into a mob twice now, Sjors hardly trusted this sorry bunch of ‘soldiers’ to even be capable of watching for Roselion men. 

Setting camp went along just fine. Sjors had it set a half-days march from Duranet on the early morning of the eleventh day from their departure. He organized watches of some ten men or so for the rest of the day and had his men get to rest early. They’d only packed enough supplies for twelve days, the One had shown them some grace by having two of their horses be slain by Wolves in the night. With the Horse Meat and the grain allocated for them, Sjors guessed he might be able to stretch their supplies to a thirteenth day.

If they failed to take Duranet that was.

The idea of them failing to take the city caused a deep dread to well up inside Sjors. Some fourteen-hundred men here under his command and another fourteen-thousand being trained by Pike in Baefivar. A sizable reserve, sure, but whatever they were armed with would be more improvised slings and sticks than crossbows and halberds. These men here were the only ones who had any semblance of arms and armor. Whether they be made of the One’s flame or of Steel.

Sjors almost let his thoughts drift to the next steps after Duranet. Then he stopped himself. One city at a time, Arkaimidia was immense in its breadth and thinking too long on how to face it all would drive him to a rope.

When the men were settled into their tents and the first watch to their posts Sjors made a loop of the camp to make sure the men were getting their proper rest. He’d known in his Mercenary days any good commander needed only to shut their men with a mean glance, rather than words. It satisfied him that he seemed to have such an effect on both the older men from Baefivar and the Zealots. Two games of dice and a particularly boisterous sermon all put to rest by him simply riding by and staring silently at those responsible.

After the loop Sjors came to the pavilion that had been prepared for him. Simple, practical with a desk, a bed, writing implements, wax and parchment should he need it. He might have preferred some nice paper from the Forigar Estate yet a command like this afforded not even that luxury. When he had strung up Valar in a gallows then maybe he could write on southerly paper. 

He sat at the desk and began to write a letter to Pike in Baefivar. Inquiring on the state of the rest of the Concord Guard being trained there. It had almost been two weeks and he doubted they had that much time.

Bishop Ramme entered the pavilion not soon after,

“Sjors.” He said.

“Yes Bishop?”

“What is the plan?”

“We march at twilight then make an assault at dawn. The Bright Moons will be behind us and the One will be with your flock. They will be the first up the ladders to burn them out then my men will follow to take the citadel.”

Ramme nodded, “Wise.”

“Do you need anything else of me, Bishop?”

“No, I do not. May the One grant us favor. May his Righteousness shine through today and might his Promise be delivered. Verogne be with you.”

“Verogne be with you as well.” 

The Bishop left and Sjors stared at the parchment for a moment before returning the quill to its pool. The Bishop and his preachers always unsettled Sjors in a way. He’d hardly heard of any Crusade of Verogne that had resulted in anything but something like the Bomelian Oligarchy or the Reiners’ Cartel. Hardly better than the Isilines, only difference is the Isilines would look the other way when you put an idol in your house while the Reiners would render you soot.

He didn’t doubt the One’s word but where did it say in the Canons that one must cede all the authority of the Citizen to warlords and bishops? Where it said that only the Saints’ spawn may govern? No doubt the Saints were great men and women of faith, yet are their children as special as they? Much less their great-great-great-great grandchildren.

A dangerous lot, he hoped that Ramme spoke true when he praised the Concord as the path to Promised Paradise. No matter his personal feelings, the flames of the One were a powerful, beautiful and terrifying thing all in equal measure.

Pressing his worries about the Zealots aside he wrote letters well into the night. Scrapping almost four addresses to Pike, the man was a damn good organizer but Sjors had his reservations about him. He insisted on the perfect inquiry for the state of his men and eventually, fell asleep at that desk.

He awoke to the rattling of drums. Ink had spilled from his quill onto the parchment and nearly pooled to the point it might have stained his face. Another missive to Pike ruined. He rose from his slumber at the desk and exited the pavilion. Shocked to find Bishop Ramme preparing his men for him.

As he approached Bishop Ramme ducked his head slightly, “Sjors. The men are ready and we are soon to be upon those Carteling Bastards.”

“Good initiative Bishop.” Sjors surveyed the sky and saw a pair of moons just beginning to peak over the tree-line. His men were assembled into a marching column and the addition of drums hadn’t gone unnoticed by Sjors. It was later they had assembled than he would have liked, but he’d slept so long he could hardly blame anyone but himself. 

Mounting his steed he got a better look at the column, it was wider than he had ordered they be assembled on the way out of Baefivar. With men split into seven groups each with a ladder. At the fore of these groups were those zealots of the Bishop. Marked aside by their lack of any proper arms or armor, spare a few who had a sword hanging from a belt or a shield but no weapon.

Ramme rode up beside him. Once the man was at his side, Sjors asked.

“Where did you get the Drums?”

“Priest Jon and a few others made them.”

“Ah.”

The drums sounded off and the Column began to move at a slow pace. Sjors could tell they were Jon’s handiwork now that he was listening to them with a clearer ear. They were discordant. Some shrill and others far too deep. The drummers themselves left much to be desired as well. A good number of them were off such that the effect they had was hardly unifying the column to a single pace but more creating a general wall of sound that followed it.

Sjors rode at a leisurely pace alongside the columns. The cacophony of noise from Ramme’s drummers did little but give him a headache. His helmet doing little to dampen the ceaseless, terrible thumpings. When they finally arrived at Duranet’s suburbs and the drumming halted Sjors let out a sigh of relief.

The Columns proceeded at a slower pace through the orchards, gardens and roads that surrounded Duranet’s walls. Their arrival had caught the locals offguard, several of them either barricading themselves in their homes or fleeing the city entirely. The City’s gate was shut before them. Sjors found a small grove of coppiced trees that gave him a good view of the section of wall his men would be assaulting. It rested on a humble hill, which alongside his horse, allowed him to peer over the suburbs which lay in the small depression between here and the wall.

The first ladder laid against the wall was done too close to its base. Sjors cringed as the first of the Zealots began scaling it. The brave man at its head wore nothing but a pair of trousers and a belt that an empty scabbard hung from. He climbed with one hand and waved his sword with the other which was alight with the Flame of the One. His screams could be heard in a diminished form even all the way where Sjors and his followers watched the assault.

Then, the men at the top of the wall realized the assaulter’s error. A concerted push of a few men sent the ladder teetering backwards. The men at the bottom tried to stabilize it but it had swung too far already. The brave man who was at the top of the ladder leaped off and let out a blood curdling scream. He flew with such momentum towards the wall that Sjors thought for a moment he might make it. That was until a javelin thrown from the wall pierced his skull. His flaming blade was extinguished and his body plummeted to the earth below.

Sjors feared for a moment that the other teams may turn tail and run as well, then he saw flame spreading along the wall in his left peripheral. While Sjors had been observing the spectacle of the first attempted assault three more ladders had been laid off to the side where the first folly of an assault was attempted. Flame spread from a small beachhead that had been made by the first men atop the walls. Priest Jon himself could be seen at the center of this beachhead, waving a flaming axe in one hand and holding the Canons in the other.

A breath of relief escaped Sjors’ mouth. He almost spoke to one of his followers until he saw the torrent of flame that was burning the defender alive crawled off the side of the wall and sprouted forth onto the ladders and the men that were mantling up them. Sjors’ eyes widened with terror and his heart quickened as he saw Priest Jon and his lot turning their flames upon their own men. Then the flames were fully broken from the control of the assaulters. They spread now in all directions, consuming defender, attacker and ladder alike. Those three columns which had yet to lay their ladders and make assault now dissolved alongside those men waiting at the bottom of the ladders for their turn to mantle up to the wall’s top. The host of ill-prepared and undrilled men now fled in all directions. The last thing Sjors saw before he wheeled his horse to make his own escape was an Arrow fly into the throat of Priest Jon. What little remained of his vanguard fell soon after.

Noon

There were three moons high in the sky. Almost directly above Jame’s back as he bent down to pull the crossbow’s string back behind the nut. It felt as if he could feel their gaze upon him as he rose to an upright position and brought the crossbow level; then placing the bolt in its groove. The crossbow was raised and he turned to gaze downrange. Sweat filled his tunic and dripped in beads off his face. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the wooden board a few dozen meters away that served as his target. It had a crude imitation of the Rose-wrapped lion painted upon it. 

He pressed down upon the lever and watched the bolt fly. He missed.

A shock of pain rocked his back as he was struck with the cane of Drillmaster Venk. It took all his strength to remain standing and not collapse to the ground.

“That’s enough Jame! Get back to your column!” Venk shouted at him.

Jame walked away from the range and sulked back to where his Column stood under the hot moons. 

“Han! Charles! Guy! You’re all up next. Come along now!”

Jame took his spot in the Column, near the rear in the ninth line of ten. He held the crossbow and stood straight. Lest he draw the ire of Venk’s cane yet again. The moons seemed to speed towards their rest away from their apex upon the blue and empty sky. A man next to Jame collapsed from the heat and Venk hardly paid him notice. A pair of women who were observing heaved him up and carried him off.

Jame hadn’t known him, not that well. A cobbler maybe? Would have been nice to have him when they marched upon Roselion Castle. When the brighter moons had set and all that was left of one of their infernal trio, Drillmaster Venk came before the Column.

“You are all dismissed for the day! Tent parties are to receive one bowl of stew each! First watch is the duty of your Column, when you have received your stew all of you are to the walls!”

Jame felt dread wash over him. Standing in the sun for so long had made him forget the First Watch was him and his Column’s duty. After a long day of crossbow drills followed by standing under the hot moons Jame felt as if his falling asleep during watch were inevitable. He gave up a small prayer to the One that Hunt might bring his dice. Jame didn’t have many silvers to gamble but it would keep his attention for the night at least.

As the Column disbanded towards the cookshops the Guard had taken over, Jame was joined by two other members of his tent party, 

Hunt was recognizable from his distinct high-pitched voice. Possessing a hint of a Northern Laker accent.

“What a loooong day!” Hunt said with surprising vigor. By his voice Jame might have guessed the man had just sprung from an evening nap.

“Yeah, long.” Stephen answered him. His voice was lower, though not deep it always cracked at least once when the ‘man’spoke.

“Hunt, did you hear anything about what they are serving today?”

“Rabbit, acorn and turnips I heard. Should be good! Better than the old gruel my sister prepared!” He laughed. “Thank the One she scuttled off to Neracon when this all started, spared me from her cooking!”

Stephen did not find this amusing, frowning.

“Oh come on Stephen, she just wasn’t right for you! That young harlot would’ve left you by the time the three moons became two I don’t doubt it!”

“Whatever.”

Jame smelled the warm aroma that fluttered in the wind. A long line of Guardsmen had already formed and the smell of the stew caused Jame’s stomach to rumble. Women and boys carried buckets of water and offered them to the parched. Jame took one from a boy that looked to be a quarter his age. He chugged the entire thing and his stomach turned. Despite the onset of nausea he breathed a sigh of relief and handed the bucket back to the boy.

“Wow you sure were thirsty!” The boy said before skipping away.

Hunt laughed. Stephen’s eyes followed a girl who walked past the trio.

Jame wiped water from his lips, shuffling forward as the line moved. “Can’t believe we’ve got the first watch. Especially since Venk was shoved onto us. That old sod is far too eager with the cane.”

“You can say that again.” Hunt said.

Stephen nodded.

They’d finally come to the head of the line, the ‘bowl’ Venk had mentioned was a deep one. More than enough stew for the three guard of the tent party. Jame’s stomach roiled with hunger. He could hear Hunt’s and Stephen’s stomachs calling out in chorus with his.

“Here you are boys.” The old lady who was spooning the stew into these deep bowls said. Pushing the bowl forward for the three to take it. Stephen grumbled some dissent at the use of the word boy. Jame and Hunt each took up a side of the bowl to carry it. The three made their way to the Wall in silence and haste. Eager to sit down and feast upon the great banquet of rabbit, turnip and acorn that had been dispensed to them.

They sat and ate ravenously. A whole day of drills wore heavily on their bodies. Even the worst days of daytaling hadn’t been quite as bad as what Jame had just gone through. The worst bosses cut your pay when you lazed around, not whipped you with a cane then made you stand firm in the sun.

Jame finished his stew and sighed. Ultimately, after the entire day he felt rather empty. The part of him that craved for days before the Guard called out to him. When he looked over the edge of the tower he, Stephen and Hunt were upon all the rabble-rousing speeches that had been given by Priest Jon and Bishop Ramme on the streets of Baefivar did little to comfort his soul here after such a harsh day.

His reminiscence faded though, when Hunt pulled out the dice and gave him a knowing smile.