Amidst the busy crowd of noblemen, clad in finery of robes, mantles, barretinas and chaperons with fitted liripipes, stood one figure that stood out from the others, wearing clothing of the finest calibre, made of silk and foreign textiles imported from the kingdom of Arlon, the Khalafa al-Suwaidi and even the Ye’inyani Mereti, and atop his blonde hair rested a crown of silver, the prince’s crown, which was the mark of an heir of god, and the heir to the throne of Broacien whole, and indeed the way the man moved befitted not only a prince but a king, moving through the room with an air of grace and power.
Not only his movements were graceful, but so was he himself, with a sharp, clean-shaven jawline, and high-set cheekbones that accentuated his blue eyes, contrasted by the red velvet cloak he wore that was inlaid on the inside with white furs from the north, with black spots here and there, as if the interior of the cloak was covered with the fur of a white-black hound, though far furrier and warmer, and in being so, far more luxurious. In every sense, the young man, who could’ve been no older than 20, was ‘perfect.’ The only betrayal came from his eyes, which jutted left to right, giving away the fact that the king appeared more nervous than steady. His nerves seemed to only calm when the appearance of four heavily armoured knights of the Servant order appeared, dispersing the crowd to make way for the king, and for whom most of the noblemen made way easily, though some had to be pushed aside, for their desire to be close to the king overtook their reason in this moment.
The crowd, which was spread in the halls, and even on the second level on the wooden balconies, clapped and cheered as they watched the crowned man ascend the steps to a throne, stepping over fine velvet rugs laid out to form a red approach to the throne, which was raised over the rest of the hall so that it might oversee the crowds. Behind the throne was a circular space, with high tall windows, with lead in glass, reminiscent of a church or cathedral, and the sun cast here rays of sunlight through the lead, projecting the images onto the floor in front of the crowd, with beautiful spectacles that displayed the former kings and queens, to whom all current kings, queens, princes and princesses might trace lineage. Lineage to God, and to be Gods themselves, and to rule over the kingdom of men: Broacien, and all lands beyond.
Indeed, it was the belief of all Broacieniens that the ruler of Broacien – Harold Carley IV, the Young Stag, for now – was not merely the ruler of the lands, but indeed the rightful ruler of the other kingdoms and people, and not only so, but also that he and all other rulers of Broacien were Gods, and that it was the duty of men to submit to the God, so as to take their rightful place in this world.
The king moved to his throne, where a red cushion had been prepared, and he knelt on it in front of the throne afore moving his hands upwards, slowly and gently, to lift the prince’s crown off his head and set it aside on a wooden stool, placing it inside of a wooden display case. The Servants stopped at the bottom of the stone steps that led to the throne and took up positions to prevent any zealous noblemen from moving forward – and, of course, to protect the king from any would-be assassins.
Visible now were the red ochre marks on their forehead, three circles in the shape of a triangle or pyramid, pressed into their skin with a sharp bone needle so that it may never come off, and a signal to all that they were not merely knights, but Servants to the king and members of the holy order of Servants, the highest of praises for any warrior.
The only person allowed past the Servants was the Grand Bishop of Riverhall, who held in his arms the crown of the king, which after a period of a month of mourning was finally ready to be granted to the rightful heir of the former king, Gregar I, the Stag-king, who had passed away in battle against the Khalafa al-Suwaidi. His death had resulted in the siege, sack and occupation of the southern fortress, which had now come to be called Ghaliatan Ramal Al-Hamra, which caused considerable delays in the return of the body of the king, though he had now finally been interred and placed to rest in the tomb of kings, alongside all other members of the royal family, current and past.
The Grand Bishop, wearing a fine black habit, a white-and-red cassock and a red high mitre, appeared to be of a frail age, though no less energized, and he moved forward with some vigour, and when the king sat down in his throne, the Grand Bishop stood at his side and placed the cushion holding the crown of kings on the nearby table, and lifted the crown with his red-gloved hands, and reverently placed the crown on the head of the king.
The spectacular crown was made of silver, with a golden trim and ruby coloured gems set in the points of the crown – fit for a king, and not just any king, but the king of kings. It was not for any reason that the crown had a script along the side of it, imprinted with fine letters that curved and curled, reading ‘hominum mortalium regnum Deus regere, sic audi Deum,’ the kingdom of mortal men should be governed by a God, so hear God, to which the crown would serve as a symbol of leadership, rulership, and a mortal reminder to all faithful followers to follow the rightful command of Harold Carley II, God of Men.
A loud, triumphant cheer arose from the crowd, who saw their king crowned, and the only thing holding them back from storming the king were the Servants who remained, dutifully, their hands on their swords, ready to do what must be done.
Harold raised his hand to the left, where the Grand Bishop stood, who handed him a royal sceptre, a symbol of his power, and Harold hoisted it in the air, before his voice echoed through the room with a boom that could only be achieved through practice and some architectural feats of engineering. “Silence!” he commanded, and the people followed, their deafening cries turning to whispers afore their king, who rose to his feet and stepped forwards, to the edge of the stone steps, and spoke again: “twenty years ago my father commanded an expedition be held to recover the lost relic of Saint Friedrich, and so a great movement occurred of hundreds of people to the border regions, and there they found no recourse but to proceed into the desert. There we lost many people, and recovered not our banner, and we have fared no worse for it.”
The crowd listened attentively to his words, though the way the king was speaking worried some, as it came close to speaking ill of the dead. Nevertheless, he continued to speak, his voice carrying through the hall as he did, saying “and so as my first decree as the king, I do hereby declare that the temporary peace we agreed with the Khalafate shall become a permanent one, until rightly we may find course for war again, and though the loss of such a relic pains me I cannot say that it is worth the continued cost of Broacienien lives.”
There was a silence for some moments, and where the king had previously appeared anxious, his eyes now turned with certainty, leering over the crowd until finally he turned his head towards the Grand Bishop, who took a moment afore he understood the cue, and then stepped forward, before pronouncing loudly, “hear, hear, the king has spoken, and we shall know a time of peace!” Only then did the crowd respond, clapping loudly, though leaving behind the cheering for now. It was well known that the Khalafate – and the Sawarim who lived there – were the enemy of the Broacienien, and the peace would only be temporary, though many of the hardliners in the kings’ court did not support this peace and would sooner seek death and glory in battle against the accursed Sawarim than to lay down their arms for the moment. Nevertheless, no mere mortal, even those at court who detested the Sawarim, could go against the king indeed, and none dared chance it.
The king averted his eyes from the Grand Bishop then and looked at the crowd, pleased with himself and his coronation, and for a moment it seemed like everything would be fine, though the absence of his sisters and brothers pained him greatly. On the balcony, however, his mother stood, her hands folded neatly together behind her back as always, and though her lips did not part, the subtlest hint of a smile was visible for a brief moment before she turned away and returned to the halls of the castle, which winded around and around to ensure any interlopers would find themselves confused and consistently turning on themselves. The dowager-queen Matilde found herself flanked by a single Servant, whom she commanded with the single wave of a hand. Without a word needed, the Servant would open the door for her with his left hand while the right hand rested on his sword. So, she disappeared, away from the court of her youngest son, leaving him alone. And, perhaps, to the wolves. The word of the coronation would spread quickly, of course.
Some ways away to the south, on the Golden River, the news arrived but a mere week later. It was here that the oldest son of the king, Gregar II, held his own court at the new bastion of the Monarchist faith, a true vestige against the tide of the Sawarim, or at the very least, this was how it would be made to seem. Gregar II had long been a martial man and were it not for his lineage being traced to the kings of old, he would have likely joined the Servant order to do battle in the name of the king. It was not surprising then that he took the mantle of the ruler of Stags’ Rest here, where the threat was most high, and redoubled his efforts in re-establishing a headquarters of the Servant order, which had been lost with the fall of the frontier fortress in the south to the Sawarim.
But with the news of the coronation – and the following decree of peace – the tides could very well shift. In a small tent camp situated east of the castle-town of Stags’ Rest Gregar found himself, and his trusted companions, many of whom were Servants. Together they were huddled over a map of the local region, specifically looking at the location of one of the few many stone bridges over the Golden River, with his chief engineer giving guidance as to how to best construct ramparts and a tollhouse so that it would remain useable as a fortress in times of war. The chatter of strategy and ideas was broken when a man arrived on horse, being halted by the guards outside of the open tent with halberds and pikes.
“Halt there!” the guardsman yelled, “state your purpose, or be gone from the prince-pretenders’ tent!”
“A message from the capital, my liege, the coronation—it has, it has concluded! The king declares for peace with the Sawarim, my lord!”
The earlier chatter now stopped completely, as Gregar looked at the messenger for the first time. Contrary to his brother, Gregar was not so ‘perfect,’ for he was scarred in battle many times, the most noteworthy of which running across his right eyebrow, crossing his eye and seemingly having only narrowly avoided blinding the man, afore the slash curved down and across his lip. A nasty blemish to be sure. Even more so contrasting were their features, and where Harold resembled more his mother – who traced true lineage all the way to the first kings – Gregar resembled his father, not just in name but looks, with brown hair and a beard, which were untamed so much so that it gave the impression that Gregar was not Broacienien but in fact a clansmen of the hillocks in the west of Broacien.
“What are you waiting for,” Gregar said, gesturing towards the horseman, who still reared his horse that moved back and forth uncomfortably, “come in and tell us of the proceedings.”
The messenger, a young man, likely a farmer’s son, looked to the prince-pretender and then to the horse, before he spoke up softly, “my lord, I must ride to meet your sister, the princess-pretender Anne, and I must leave now, or else the news won’t get there in time…”
It was, of course, always a risk to deny the word of a prince, for though they were not kings or queens, they were still in equal measure godly. Gregar nodded and waved his hand, waving the messenger away, before he turned back to the map. Behind him, the gallop of the horse moving out of the camp and towards the next destination betrayed just how rapidly the messenger must’ve ridden, for he did not stop to request a new horse or even water and feed.
“Should we find the messenger and bring him here for punishment,” one of the nearby sergeant-at-arms said, a hand resting on the hefty head of his warpick that was looped into his belt.
“For the crime of serving his lord and fulfilling the commands he was given?” the prince-pretender stated, “the boy committed no crime, merely doing as told, as any man should.” A deep sigh followed, before the big hands of the prince moved across the map, wiping it clean of any markings. “Roll this up and secure it,” he told his nearby squire, a young man that seemed more than happy to serve his prince. With a rush in his step the boy rushed forwards, rolling up the paper and fastening a leather strap around it, to secure it and pretend it from unfurling, before running back to the corner of the tent where he held on to the map.
With a wide gesture, Gregar gestured for any other man that could fulfil his next demand, caring little for who did it, ordering only: “and prepare the horses. We will surely ride back before the night.” One of the men that had previously been occupied with the planning of the ramparts went ahead and left the tent, seeking to secure the horses and make them ready. While he moved on, so did the prince-pretender, who stepped out followed by two Servants, who traced every step of the prince with a steady foot, rigorously moving about towards the prince’s personal tent.
“You approve not of the coronation, my liege?” one of the Servants asked as they moved, whose face was perhaps a little dirtier than it should’ve been, covered in the dust and mud of hard labour in the gully of the river to throw up a ditch to widen the river, and build up the rampart.
“Not here,” Gregar said, his pace now quickening, until they reached the white and red tent, several degrees larger than the others, complete with a field bed, a desk and chair, and fine rugs to cover the dirt. Once arrived, Gregar took off his gloves, and placed them upon the desk, before leaning on the desk and momentarily gathering himself. Then, suddenly and firmly, he raised his fist and sent it down into the desk, shaking the contents.
“First, we let the Sawarim take Redsand, they kill our father for it, and then he dares proclaim peace?” Gregar said, turning to the two Servants that escorted him. It was clear that the ultimate loyalty of the Servants did, or at least should, lay with the king in the Riverhall, though with the growing discontentment of the Servant order, things were more complicated than this. “It’s an outrage. He should have raised a host of faithful, Servant and peasant alike, and marched south to retake the hold — and then further south to put to torch every village we could find.”
“Indeed, my liege,” the Servant with the dirty face answered, “it is well known that king Harold has prioritized the stability of his own rule over the rightful battle we would do upon the Sawarim. Even now, he uses his powers to reduce your estates and power over Stags’ Rest, claiming that as the noble line of Kings of Kings is interred there, it should rightfully be held and ruled by the king himself.” The talk bordered on the heretical and, were it not for the discontentment Gregar himself felt, it is likely that Gregar could’ve had the man executed for daring to imply that the king was interested in his own interests before the interests of the kingdom – and even if that were so, is it not the right of a God to do so?
Gregar shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning about and stepping behind his desk, seemingly considering the options in front of him. “Preposterous,” was all he could produce, “Stags’ Rest is the last true fortress standing between the Sawarim and the capital. Rightly, the command of this bastion was granted to me by our father.”
There was no reply, only a nod from the Servants, who bowed their head down in agreement, but offered nothing else.
“What of my sisters? They’ve long been uninterested in the politics, content to sit out their days in marriage but surely, they have something to say now that their own estates are being tarnished?”
“No word, my liege, at least as far as we know.”
Gregar again shook his head, moving around with some degree of nervosity, his armour crunching with every step. “Perhaps it is time to discuss the future of Broacien with the Hegmaester of the Servants, then. We cannot, and I will not, sit idly by while my brother sets out to destroy the kingdom my father built.”
The Servants again bowed their heads, though this time the dirty faced Servants agreed, saying with the politest tone, “indeed my king.”
The group broke camp soon after, with some actual servants staying behind to handle the transport of the furniture, while Gregar and his group of Servants, guards and engineers rode back harder, seeking to reach Stags’ Rest by the night. As they rode across the large wooden drawbridge, the thud of the horses gallop on the wood betrayed their presence to the guards atop the wall, and soon after the bell was rung to instruct those inside to open the gate, which consisted of a heavy set of two separate portcullis and a set of large wooden doors, set in iron, and with studs so big they could’ve been forged by giants. After the fall of Redsand, every man in the town had been conscripted to shore up the defences, fearing a march north by the Sawarim. Though this march never came and the Sawarim seemed content to sit in Redsand, now Ghaliatan Ramal al-Hamra, the city had become so much more fortified for it, and there were few armies that could forcibly siege down the castle now.
All in all, the city was built in tiers, with the lowest tier being where the peasants and merchants resided. Outside the castle walls there were the farm estates, though these were not protected, where freedmen and landowners worked, though the lands were farmed by serfs and slaves alike. Those peasants who lived in the first lower section of the town were frequently craftsmen working for the merchants, though in the second tier the true wealthy citizens lived, consisting of a very small commune of merchants from the Ye’inyani Mereti, and traders from Arlon that had established a permanent home here, alongside local merchants that had made fortunes. This second tier was protected by another set of curtain walls, with a large gatehouse separating the first and second layer of the town, though with only one portcullis that usually remained open.
Traveling up the main road through the second tier, known as the Silkquarter for the many silk merchants that resided there, one would arrive at the fortress of Stags’ Rest, around which everything else had been built over the years. The fortress was magnificent, built atop a hillside next to the river, and consisted of a donjon made of stone, with a bastion and corps de logis attached to it, complete with a section for the separate housing of any noblewomen, visiting or local, and a separate wing for the maidens and other servants. From the keep, the guards could access the battlements, which were covered with wooden structures and roofs to keep the weather out. Even around the walls, one could easily access the third layer of walls through the stairs leading to the chemine de ronde, often referred to as the Wall-walk by the Broacieniens. There were towers here and there, mostly consisting of the typical Broacienien flanking towers, with machicolations below them so that the defenders might drop boiling water or stones down at any would-be besiegers.
Behind the corps de logis and donjon, there was a secondary donjon in a sectioned, walled off part of the defences, though much smaller in size, where the Servants were headquartered. Originally a flanking tower, much of the original tower was now unrecognizable and, with the help of architects from Arlon, had been turned into a secondary stronghold that also served for the bureaucracy of the military holy order of the Servants.
Despite the night drawing closer, the castle was alive and well with activity, though none expected prince-pretender Gregar to return so soon, and there was some hubbub about this as the stableboys tried to arrange themselves into some degree of orderly, prepared to receive the horses of the many people returning. As Gregar dismounted, he handed off the reins of his large workhorse, endearingly called Milady, to the stableboy nearest. Then he gestured around the donjon, towards the tower of the Servants, leading the way for the other Servants while the guards and engineers returned to their duties, clearly not invited to take place at these talks. As they passed the corps de logis, a man wearing a metal platebody with a kettle helmet with visor stepped outside and began matching pace with the prince.
“Back so soon, milord? I’d not prepared the guard for your arrival, knowing you would be at least a fortnight before you returned,” the man said, the only visible of his face being the white of his eyes matched with his brown irises. From under the visor, only barely was the tuft of a pointed beard visible. Despite his apparent lack of wealth, wearing only a breastplate over chainmail, the man carried himself with a degree of standing, and the prince allowed him to walk aside him so carelessly.
“Ah, Bromke, just the man I needed,” the prince said, “we’ve much to discuss with the Hegmaester.”
“I’d heard, milord, that the coronation has happened, and king Harold declared peace with the Sawarim, for now. Is this… by any chance related?”
“You know as any other the scourge that we face, Bromke.”
The master-at-arms nodded, knowing indeed what had been lost. He had been there, after all, when Redsands fell. While the nobility and peasantry up north, near the capital, cared little for the war with the Sawarim, the southern lands saw refugees driven before them fleeing north ahead of the retreat of the Broacienien armies, and indeed most lands even south of the Stags’ Rest were now devoid of life, abandoned sheepfolds and small hovels littering the landscape. Slowly people were returning to their old homes, and even some northerners were settling here now, to live in the abandoned homes of people long gone, but this had only happened when it became clear that the Sawarim were not pressing onwards into Broacienien territory, much later. Much like those refugees, the master-at-arms too had lost his home, then in Redsands.
As the group moved along, they passed the doorway into the keep of the Servants, where the ground floor had been converted into the barracks, though it had a lower section that was used for an armoury. The doorway was richly decorated with a set of doors carved with imagery of the royal lineage, though it was visible easily here just as well as elsewhere in Broacien that it was not a very rich country, and so the carved decorations were the extent of the decorative works on the door, which was otherwise filled with studs and lined with an iron rim to strengthen it. On either side of the doors, a set of corbels held up the stone awning over the doors, with the corbels taking the shape of peasants holding up the awning, symbolical of the way the peasants should serve the king and the nation.
In the barracks several Servants were present, busy with not much in particular, dressed in their tunics preparing for the night, with some sitting at a table playing cards, while others were on their beds, and others still standing around talking to one another. The presence of the prince-pretender made them all stand up, however, and bow reverently for him, though the prince moved swiftly up the stone stairs that took him to the second level of the tower, and then another round around the stairs would take him to the floor below the top of the tower. A middle-aged man, with a bald crown and only a small amount of hair on the sides and back of his head though not yet gray, and with a forked beard, was seated at the desk here and working on some paperwork. Squeezing his eye tightly, he held in place a piece of rimmed glass that had been sharpened by the artisans of Arlon, enhancing his vision which was otherwise quite poorly. He looked up from his paperwork only momentarily, registering a second later that the prince-pretender was here, before he rose to his feet so fast that he accidentally threw over the chair behind him.
“My prince,” he said, “I’d not known you were due for an inspection, forgive me.”
“You are not mistaken, Hegmaester, and I see you are persistent in your work, as ever,” the prince answered, walking into the room, while the Servants stayed behind at the stairs, and Bromke, the master-at-arms not far behind. Stopping just in front of the desk, Gregar turned himself to the Hegmaester, placing his hand on the pommel of his sword to rest it. “I assume you have heard of the coronation, and the decree sent out by our king Harold?”
The Hegmaester shuffled about before righting the chair behind him, though he remained standing, to not offend the prince. “Yes, my prince, indeed. An interesting decision to not ride south immediately, to retake Redsands, especially after the trouble the Sawarim gave us to inter the late king.” The Hegmaester was careful and precise in his wording, wishing to not offend Gregar by speaking ill of the king, and indeed, because he still held the conviction that the king was his God, and so he was forever in service to the king.
“So I thought too, though doubly so, not only for not doing so himself, but also to prevent others from doing so in his stead, ready as my armies are – and yours, I would presume, Hegmaester – we are to remain in Stags’ Rest instead and simply accept this.”
The Hegmaester leaned on the desk momentarily, stating matter-of-factly, “true, my liege.”
“And was it not the other day that Servants went to collect a tithe from a village round the Riverhall, and there were stopped by the knights of the king, stating that they had no claim to the tithe that was promised to the order and that the money belonged to the king?”
“Indeed, but they paid us half the tithe in restitution later.”
“But was it not my father, king Gregar, who had promised you could collect this tithe there, and other places, to support the activities of the Kings most loyal followers, the Servants? Then would it not befit a king to respect the actions of kings past, much more so their own father?”
The Hegmaester became visibly uncomfortable at this, as the prince was now bordering on heresy, and though the prince had every right to state his opinion, a man like the Hegmaester much less so as he was not of noble blood and merely a pig-farmer’s son that had entered service with the Servants long ago. “My liege, I cannot—…” he said, treading a fine line between offending the king, and offending the prince. If any loyalists even reported this conversation took place, he could be deposed and executed.
“Have I not served the Servant order faithfully, as your god, and as the host of your order right now in my lands, to even lease a part of my fortifications to you to re-establish a headquarter?” Gregar continued, speaking over the Hegmaester, knowing full well long before the coronation already that Gregar had the loyalty of the Servant order in large swathes, as he was the son that led the armies prior, and served closely with many Servants in skirmishes in the south. “You may not stand against your God, I understand this very well, Hegmaester, for it is your devotion to the cause of all Broacien that landed you in the order, and while Harold fills your ranks with loyalists and noblemen who did not earn their spot but received it for loyalty, you carry on with devotion. You are an honorable man, Hegmaester, and you cannot stand against God, this I know.”
For a moment the prince paused, allowing the Hegmaester not only to parse his words but process them carefully, before he carried on. “But am I not God as well, and so, do I not have the ability to claim my rightful place on the throne, and depose the pretender that now tarnishes our lands for his own gain, and seeks to take the funds of the Servants to pay off his noblemen? Would it not be the task of a devoted Hegmaester to support the rightful king, then, the king who would see to it that we would restore our rightful rule over the lands now claimed by the Sawarim?”
“It would be unheard of my liege, to think the Servants would serve not the youngest, but the eldest, not to state the loyalists that, as you said, already fill our ranks… Servant stands against Servant… the bloodshed would be…”
“Immense, Hegmaester, immense. But what of the bloodshed when the Sawarim march north when they can, and take Stags’ Rest, and put an end to the peace of my brother?” Gregar gestured for the side, where the gathering of Servants and the master-at-arms still stood and beckoned for the master-at-arms to step forward. “Bromke, you have tended the Garrison for some time now, and oversee the retinue, and also keep track of the troops we can muster, and even counting the presence of Servants here, how do we fare against the troops of the Sawarim should they attack here?”
Bromke stepped forward, his eyes averted to the ground in the presence of nobler men, and though he was familiar with the prince, it would only befit him to keep up the appearances of a servile lesser in front of the Hegmaester. “We count a garrison of some five hundred men milord, and then the retinue which rests in the other estates counts some thousand horsemen, an equal measure of footmen, and perhaps auxiliaries should we be able to afford them, and then with the peasants and Servants here, we would only amass an army of several thousand at most, my liege.”
The prince aimed his words at the Hegmaester again, continuing his persuasive attempt at securing the loyalty of the Servants, “and during the last struggle against the Sawarim we saw armies of tens of thousands, and so Stags’ Rest would fall, and the Servants would be without home again, all because we allowed the enemy to rest and lick their wounds. Would you not rather see a king that did not allow such a thing to befall us?”
The Hegmaester nodded. “Yes, my liege, indeed.”
And so Gregar continued, “and am I not god also, and is my rightful place not at the head of this country, if not through inheritance, then through strength?”
“But then perhaps your brother would abdicate in favour of you, if you merely presented your claim, and we would not have to perform bloodshed.”
“Then let us hope he sees wisdom,” the prince answered, knowing that the dowager-queen herself would prevent this, as she vastly preferred the ‘perfect’ son that was Harold over him. He gestured towards Bromke, and commanded him, “call the banners tomorrow, and see to it that a camp is built outside of the city walls for our men.”
Bromke nodded, and spoke immediately and with resolution, “aye milord, I’ll see to it.”
It was only then that the Hegmaester spoke up again, afraid to insult, yet nevertheless having to ask, “are you certain, my liege? It is not my place to question, but there will be no returning from this once the board is set.”
With equal resolve Gregar answered him. “I am certain, Hegmaester, that I will claim what is rightly mine, and that I will ensure the continued defense of Broacien against the southerners, and also the raiders that persistently raid our coastline, or that upstart tribal beyond the mountain.”
Over the course of several weeks the buildup of troops continued around Stags’ Rest, and though many Servants would disappear and head for the court of Harold, many others came from throughout the lands towards Stags’ Rest, in support of Gregar, and yet others continued to live the life of a hedge knight, free from choosing a side, or even yet pledging their services to the princesses.
Those few loyalists who left Stags’ Rest and entered the Riverhall would soon inform the king of Gregar’s intention to move an army north, and while his intentions were not yet clear to many, it was obvious that the army was not gathered for just any reason, but with the intention to commit the men to war.
In the capital, the Kings’ bannermen were called, also, and their ranks swelled with the number of loyalist Servants, those knights who would seek to support the candidate that had rightfully inherited the kingdom. From the noblemen whose loyalty was purchased with the monies intended for the Servants came support, and those nobles arrived with their own retinues of heavily armed and armoured troops and some number of crossbowmen and other troops. The preparations here benefitted greatly from the fact that the Riverhall had ample logistical capacity to tend to all these troops, and while it was built in the swamps of Broacien, there were large grasslands just outside the city that allowed the construction of a large army camp where the troops would muster.
Soon these armies would begin moving, and it was clear that Harold’s armies were bigger, though filled with the loyalist Servants, who had only become recent additions and were not as well trained or hardened in battle as the southern Servants, who mostly joined with Gregar’s army because they knew him from past incursions into the deserts, and also had fought alongside him when he led the armies south to attempt to break the siege of Redsands. Equally so were the retinues, where Gregar’s retinues had fought before in the battles of the south, the northern retinues had merely been used to ward of pirates and raiders, and the occasional bandits, and so it was quickly obvious that what the armies of Gregar lacked in numbers, they would hope to make up for in quality.
It was only in the fields between the Riverhall and Stags’ Rest that the armies would meet and set up a mustering grounds on two hills. Many pig farms littered the landscape here broken up by small spots of forest, though very small, and the ground was steady underfoot for now, but would quickly turn to mud in the rain. As the armies stopped, grinding to a halt on two hills, the leaders of the armies would gather their guards and ride forth, to meet in the middle, and parlay.
Harold would be wearing the finest armour available, consisting of solid metal plate armour, and over the breastplate he wore a gorget with fine gold inlay and trim. His pauldron on the left had a particularly high haute-piece, to catch oncoming swords that passed his shield, and also a large couter, to protect his elbow. On the right, covering his pauldron, he wore a shield-shaped piece of metal fastened over his armpit, emblazoned with the royal icon of house Carley. He struck a magnificent figure, that contrasted heavily with the surrounding area, which was not particularly beautiful, even more so as he rode without a helmet, his blonde hair flowing behind at shoulder-length.
Contrary to this, when Gregar rode forth he rode in suitable and practical armour, made of banded leather over plate armour with underneath a chainmail vest, with only slight haute-pieces on his pauldrons and a solid steel gorget, and a closed armet on his head, though with the visor open so that his brown hair slipped through here and there in loose strands.
Both men rode casually and gave the appearance of skilled riders, and it was true for both. As the two men and their retinues closed, Gregar raised his hand both to halt his retinue and to salute the king, who also halted his company but did not raise his hand.
“Brother,” the king said, “I presume you have brought these men here to commit them to a campaign of sorts, though I have no notion of what campaign I had announced.”
“You are mistaken, Harold,” Gregar retorted, crossing his hands on the wooden cantle of his saddle, while Milady stepped back and forth uneasily, “I’ve come to press my claim on the throne, and to ensure the continued defence of the realm.” He leaned forwards slightly before he allowed himself to lean back into the saddle a little more, and then added, “I would have you abdicate and surrender the throne to me, brother, for I fear the bloodshed that may follow if you do not.”
Harold held one hand on his reins while the other rested on his swords pommel, seemingly unimpressed by his brother’s words. He held his head high and surveyed the army behind his brother, before resting his eyes on his brother. “You’re right, Gregar, I too believe there would be bloodshed. Bloodshed quite terrible. I struggle to understand why you would do this… you know as well as me that father had always intended to pass the throne to me, as per the rightful laws of the realm, and that you received more than your fair share of his estates.”
“Estates that you, now, seek to obtain through scheming and skullduggery? No, brother, my fair share lies in the Riverhall. You couldn’t avenge father, you couldn’t recover lost lands, you couldn’t even recover a relic, but to stoop so low as to take lands from your own blood, that’s even beneath you, Harold, and I fear the snake that put these ideas in your head, for they are venomous indeed.” Milady turned left ever so slightly, positioning itself horizontally, seemingly quite nervous about this meeting, or perhaps merely trained and accustomed to the often more chaotic meetings with Sawarim commanders before, during the southern campaigns. “It’s not too late, Harold. Disband, and abdicate. I will take your men, turn south as their king and lay siege to Redsands, and avenge our father.”
“No, Gregar, it is too late. I, your king, grant you until sundown to reconsider your position, and to disband your troops.”
Gregar now grabbed a hold of his reins, and turned Milady around completely, facing back towards the army, before prodding the horse in the flank with his heels sending it forwards towards his troops, mumbling to himself more than anyone, “we won’t have to wait that long…” He rode hard, unlike Harold, who had simply turned around and trotted back to his own army, still convinced his brother might see reason and stop this rebellion before it was too late.
As Gregar reached the troops, he rode straight to Bromke, who stood near the front of the lines, and began barking commands, “have the footmen line up, and prepare the archers and crossbowmen,” and without wasting time, the master-at-arms began to shout and signal the different sergeants-at-arms, and the army began to slowly move into positions.
Gregar himself closed the visor on his armet, reached to his sword and pulled it out, before raising it into the air and circling it, proclaiming loudly, “horsemen, to me!”
About halfway back to his troops, king Harold was still riding calmly, though in front of him his own army stirred into action, and he looked behind him then, only to see his brother’s army moving about, forming ranks, and advancing down the hill. Suddenly, he too prodded his horse in the flanks and stirred into action and doubled his speed towards his own troops followed by his guards. As he rode into the lines, which were forming slowly, his advisors rode out to meet him. “What are your orders, my king?” one of them asked, a Servant with three dots needled into his forehead.
For a moment Harold looked around, his eyes scanning his own troops, before he looked at his brother’s army, already moving towards them down the hill to meet them in the middle. Cavalry moved right to left, and the dust of so much movement did much to obscure the true events that were unfolding.
“I…” Harold stumbled, “I gave him until the night to reconsider. What is he doing?” he managed to stammer, and his eyes turned to his advisors again, widened and visibly anxious.
“Your brother has no intention to reconsider, milord,” one of the noblemen said, a heavy-set man that looked awkward in armour, especially on a horse, “we must ready the army for the inevitable. My liege, orders, you must…”
“We… we have more troops. Simply meet them in the field and rout them. I’ll take the cavalry across the flank and perform a charge… we’ll just… just handle it.” Harold turned suddenly then and tugged on the reins, and with his horse charged off towards the flank where the cavalry was gathering, his retinue following him closely, leaving behind the advisors who were quite stumped. It took several seconds before the advisors scattered to organise the different sections of the army, and by then Gregar’s army had already gotten down the hill they’d been positioned on.
Only slowly did Harolds army begin to move, in part because it was much larger and therefore harder to organize, but the delayed response and naivete of Harold also played its part. He himself rode to the right of the army alongside a contingency of cavalry, some knights and some regular horsemen, and even some of the older squires who were getting prepared to join the ranks of the knights, while the other squires and pages stayed behind to prepare lances and secondary weapons in case it was needed.
As the armies drew to a close, the yelling increased, and then, perhaps surprisingly, came a shout from Harold II, the king of Broacien, who raised his sword in the air and gestured it forwards, screaming loudly, “charge!” and so the men of the king followed his command, willingly and with vigour. The men unleashed their warcries as they began running at their enemies, only to be followed shortly by the twang of bows and crossbows being fired, whose arrows flew overhead and began raining down on the forces of Gregar.
It was clear that Gregar had not expected such a move from his younger brother, who had barely been educated in the command of armies and no experience in the field. It was only narrowly that he managed to swing his shield up, as he caught an arrow stuck in the shield, before he too bellowed out his orders. “Spearmen to the front, prepare for the charge! Cavalry, follow me!” Like battle-hardened soldiers, the spearmen followed their orders immediately, though a few of them now laid wounded or even dead, with arrows sticking out of them, their compatriots barely stumbling over the wounded and the dead. Behind the spearmen were the militia and footmen, with the heavily armoured sergeants-at-arms on the left flank so as to hopefully envelop the enemy from the left.
In the moment before the inevitable crash of the men of Harold against the lines of Gregar, there was a deafening silence, cut short only by the twang of more bows and crossbows, this time those of Gregar, their arrows and bolts flying narrowly overhead of the footmen, and crashing into the charging men opposite them.
Then, the chaos of battle took over, and the sounds of metal-on-metal echoed through the air punctuated by war cries, death-shouts and blood-curdling screams. The cavalry had chosen different sides of the field, hoping to circumvent each other and land a deadly blow where it mattered, though this also meant there was little defence against the cavalry to begin with.
Harold saw his gap soon enough, and raised his sword arm high again, pointing at the opening he’d seen, and yelled out, “charge! Charge!” to his men, spurring his horse to make great haste then, and charging it into the line of the enemy. The mark seemed to be the right-side infantry, merely militiamen that would break quickly and flee, or at least so did Harold hope. As the cavalry made contact with the enemy, some of the men on the farthest side of the enemy was sent tumbling down from the contact, some even knocked unconscious from the crash of the horses against the bodies of men, and it seemed for a moment that the flank would shatter and rout. In the midst of the chaos, however, reinforcements drew up from the rear to reinforce the left flank, consisting of some retinue of armoured footmen, who came in with polearms and halberds.
Hefting and hewing, Harold found himself in the thick of it, and what he lacked in combat prowess, he made up for with the quality of his armour, as blow after blow bounced off of him. The poorly made weapons of the militia consisted of nothing more than blunt falchions, axes and spears, and were no match for his plate armour or even the armour of his horse. Never the less, the approach of the footmen with their polearms did prove some danger, and Harold quickly organized his men to retreat from the battle and get ready for a second charge, guiding his knights away after having inflicted their damage, and moving back towards the rear of the enemy to look for another opening. This would soon present itself again, as the flanks of the enemy were now heavily reinforced with footmen in armour, but the centres were weak, and presented no defense against a charge. Again, he pointed his sword, commanding his knights to move forward alongside him, and again they charged, this crash even heavier than the former, as the knights waded into the middle of the fighting. There would be no retreat from this battle now, and Harold and his men continued chopping and slashing, cutting down those militia men that stood in their way.
From his side of the battle, Gregar was able to oversee the movements of the enemy as he and his knights and horsemen flanked around, scouting for an opening, but the lines of Harold were so densely packed that it was nigh impossible to actually enter the fray with the infantry. From over the fighting Gregar could see his brother, Harold, charging the centre, and this spurred him to action. He had to find a place to charge, and it had to be now, or else the tide of battle might soon turn. His men were holding – but the numerical advantage that Harold held was beginning to become obvious, and a rout had to be forced soon for fear of a total envelopment.
Then his eyes fell on the archers and crossbowmen of Harold, who were attempting to close the distance to get a shot at Gregar’s own archers. Without giving it much thought, he turned Milady in that direction and his retinue followed, needing no commands. The direction was obvious to all, and some of the knights and horsemen even began to ride out in front of Gregar – in part because Milady was more of a farm horse than a warhorse, but also because they were filled with the desire to fight that could only be found in the veterans of the armies of Broacieniens.
In the group of archers, the sergeants-at-arms quickly turned their soldiers towards the cavalry, bellowing about, “SWORDS! SWORDS!” though it was much too late. Most the archers could only barely draw half their swords out of the sheaths before the cavalry crashed into them, and though the horsemen were fewer in number than Harolds’ knights, the crash was thunderous, shattering the first few lines of archers instantly, and then the horrible fighting happened where the knights leaned down and would slash the archers, and stab them with their spears and lances, mowing through the remaining archers easily.
Now that the archers had stopped firing, and the rip of crossbow bolts no longer flew overhead to decimate even the most armoured soldiers, the fight suddenly became much more even. Harold looked up in surprise, the flow of battle now turning against him despite his numbers, as most of his militia began to turn tail and run, fleeing in the direction of a nearby forest. Despite the presence of their king, and despite the cavalry hewing through the lines and the armoured infantry holding the line. Looking over the lines, he saw the enemy horsemen carving up what remained of his archers, and then looked back towards his infantry, who were struggling to hold back the tide of soldiers. He pulled on the reins and steered his horse back towards the back of the enemy lines, where an opening had been carved, before pulling a richly carved horn from his belt and raising it to his lips, pursing them and blowing on them. The sound of the kings horn could energize his people, but this time he sounded the retreat, before they took such losses that there was no recovery possible at all. He and his knights pulled back from the rear and made for the forest as well, and soon after the infantry followed, performing a fighting retreat at first before the tide became too much, and they turned tail and began to rout completely, heading for the same forest.
At first Gregars men gave chase, but the battle had worn them out considerably, and after the first few of Harolds men were cut down while fleeing, the pursuers eventually gave up the chase and raised their weapons in victory, the cheers of the men echoing over the empty field, completely drowning out the yells and complaints of the wounded. The horsemen continued for longer, riding down the enemy as much as possible, through turning back in the forest, not wanting to be ambushed by a reformed line. Gregar himself, however, did not give chase and returned to the lines, seeking out his master-at-arms, Bromke.
“You made it, my liege,” the man said, pulling his war pick out of a body, before kicking it over with his foot and bending down to take the man’s sword. “I saw their men-at-arms trying to turn to charge you when you moved for the archers, so I rushed forward with some men to stop them. Glad to see it worked... but that was risky.” He threw the sword onto a big pile that the men were beginning to form of all sorts of weapons, before wiping his hands off on his chainmail, with limited success.
“I was surprised by Harold,” Gregar said, “despite his lack of practice, he threw himself into the battle with no issue. I expected him to command from a distance.”
Bromke shrugged at this. “Bravery, or stupidity? Who knows… they routed, it’s over for now.”
“It’s neither, Bromke,” Gregar said, Milady turning on her spot, “incompetent or not, he is a king, and his place is at the front. I just didn’t think he had what it took.”
“People surprise us all the time, milord. For example, this poor sap walked into me and dropped to his knees, begging for his life,” Bromke retorted, distracted with a man laying at his feet, who’d fallen face first into the mud after a sword raked across his back. At least Bromke hadn’t executed him, but…
“Right… have you seen the Hegmaester?”
“Somewhere on the flank with his men. He refused to stay in the reserve, said something about fighting for the true king or something… not sure what he meant—…” Brome said, before catching himself and barely stopping short of saying something heretical, before quickly adding, “… my liege.”
Gregar merely gave him a hum of agreement, before he turned Milady and went to look for the Hegmaester on the flank, who was walking back to the hill, seemingly not interested in looting the dead.
“Hegmaester,” Gregar yelled, his horse galloping and only slowly down when he came closer to the Hegmaester, “I see you are well!”
The Hegmaester turned around, nodding at the prince, “indeed milord. There were some close calls, but I suppose sitting in that dusty tower has not yet diminished my skills.”
“That is good to hear friend. Once the camp has made, meet me in my tent. We have much to discuss from here. Oh… and bring a map of Broacien.”
The Hegmaester bowed politely, returning only a simple “yes, milord,” before Gregar galloped away to return to the others, and arrange the aftermath of the battle, to search for wounded, to grant the survivors of the enemies side a merciful death, and to assist in any way he might.
The battle was won – the War in Heaven had just begun.
