Aaeni
Sergeant
Prologue
A hush of wind blew over the cool battlefield. Wet blood trickled down grass all too red for their natural color. In the field, one man stood. Alone. His companions were fallen. His enemies were slain by his own sword. Yet still, the man stood so very much alone. In his left hand he clutched a sword, so very fine and so well made. In his right, a shield as strong as an ox and as big as a man's chest. Blood spattered his face and thick auburn hair, but he did not despair. It was not his blood. His leader lay on the ground not three feet from him, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. Stumbling over to his leader, he kneeled beside his slain leader. Placing his mailed hand over the man's eyes, he closed them and allowed him rest, laying the man's sword over his chest. Standing, he saw the field for what it was. A field of corpses. A graveyard. The battle was lost. His friends dead. Where was the genius of his leader? Where was the chance of victory? Could things have been different? It was something he'd wonder for years to come.
Chapter One
The year was Anno Domini 639 in the year of our Lord. It was a cold winter. Three years had passed since young Acwellen Aedre had witnessed his third battle, and greatest defeat. He had been around the age of twenty three then, and was a young warrior. Some of the grizzled veterans there had deemed him too young, too hot headed and brash. Yet he was alive and they were dead. The battle was a setup. His leader had never stood a chance. Outnumbered three to one, the men there fought valiently. But it wasn't enough, and the red blood of their Saxon horde stained the field red. A mace to Acwellen's head had knocked him out and saved his life. Later he was awoken to crows pecking at him. He was the last man of his army, or so he believed. He knew not how many ran. He knew not how many's cowardice had saved them that day. It mattered not to him. Twenty six, but he felt as old as sixty two. That one battle had really sobered him, and his small group of followers knew it.
It had taken him a couple months to reach a town after the battle. There he'd drunk himself into a pit, but he wasn't in debt even after two years of whoring and drinking. He'd stayed above water somehow. This was the third year, and he decided to finally sober up. He knew for a fact that a man of his stature, being pretty well unknown, wasn't going to be able to get anyone to follow him. He'd be more like to be forced to follow someone else. But he'd had enough of that. Making a name for himself was going to be hard, he knew. Just how he'd get some men to follow him was a hard enough problem. Arming them with weapons sufficient enough to keep them alive was another matter altogether. Acwellen himself was well armored, but at best he looked like a rich sellsword. At worst, he looked like a outlaw knight.
But that was of no consequence to Acwellen. He had bigger matters on his mind. Like getting out of the way of this drunkard in front of him who appeared to want to smash his face.
"Call me a sucklin' pig will ya? I'll beat you bloody." Really, Acwellen had said nothing of the sort... But he was never one to turn down a fight. The drunkard threw a right hook, but Acwellen saw it coming. Blocking the punch and returning in kind was all too easy, and a thick wet stream of red liquid began pouring down the drunkard's face. That should've sobered the drunkard, but now he was mad so he continued with a storm of fist strikes. Acwellen, cool and tempered knew to block each strike. He wasn't attempting to assault right now. When the man he was facing made a fault, he struck there. Placing a foot behind the other man's foot and putting all his weight on the man's neck, he pretty much threw the man to the floor.
The man hit the ground hard and made to get up, but Acwellen had already drawn his sword and the man's throat touched against cool, tempered steel. The man swallowed, but yielded. He appeared sober enough now. Acwellen sheathed his sword and let the man run away. That wasn't good of him. Drawing a sword to a barehanded man wasn't exactly polite... But Acwellen wasn't exactly the most polite of people. He exited the tavern now. He'd have to make a name for himself, and beating drunkards bloody wasn't exactly the way to go. It was a cool night, and the wind pulled at his garments. Soon enough people would learn his name. He'd start soon.
Chapter two
"Oh, you're a pretty lass." He heard from down an alley. The girl's cries of 'No! Please!' were loud and irritating, but the man silenced her with a slap. What was he to do? Go in a hero and kill every last one excepting the girl, bed her and then have her spread his tale? Perhaps, but he was going for something bigger. He walked on. Later in the night, he saw a person being held up by three robbers. The man being held up was fat and wealthy. He was begging them to spare him, that he'd pay them money to go away. The men shrugged. They'd take it all from him anyways.
"Now, give us all you have or we'll gut you and take it anyways."
"Please, no!" The man cried out. They seemed not to care, and a man moved forward to kill the man. If only he could. A knife blade sprouted from the man's throat, and he stopped. He fell forward.
"Jimmy? Jimmy no!" One of the robbers cried. Apparently, the one he'd just killed was Jimmy. Probably a lock picker, and their only good one at that from how he was being mourned. There were still two more robbers, and they turned to face him. Why was he helping this man?
Because he was rich. That meant this man could pay him, and pay him well. Heck, maybe this man could even give him some swords to serve him. A man was always greatful for his life. The two robbers moved forward, confident. They outnumbered him, but he could see from the way they held their swords that they were weak. Untrained. One moved forward ready to strike and Acwellen moved to meet the strike. It was a sidecut to his left, so he blocked the strike and rolled along it to get closer. Once he was in good range, he kneed the man in the chest. The man stumbled back, winded. He got a chance to look up before Acwellen took off his head. The other moved forward, now angry. A flurry of blows were exchanged, for it appeared this one had some slight skill. Inconsequential, for the man made a blunder and Acwellen hamstringed the guy, getting him on his knees, before stabbing his blade through the man's heart.
Turning to face the man whom he'd just saved, he could see the awe and gratitude all too visible on the man's face. "You saved my life. Thank you! Is it gold you want? Women? Riches? I'll pay you back for my life." Acwellen surveyed the man. It appeared the man was more rich than he had thought, but that was good. Acwellen bowed to the man, before standing. "I slew three men for you today. I would like to request that you provide me with six sworn bodyguards and enough money to pay for them for a year." It wasn't actually a lot. It was money that the merchant probably made in a good sale's day, and the man bowed and kissed the ground in thanks.
"You may have that and more. I'll provide you with nine." A cold grin spread across Acwellen's face. Nine. He could face small parties of bandits with that. And enough money to pay for them for a year... He'd get some income by then, and maybe even some more men. Acwellen bowed again.
"You are too kind." The man nodded his fat little head.
"They will be at the tavern by sunrise tomorrow. Just give them this note and they'll follow you, and you'll find me at the marketplace selling goods to get your money." The man said. This was good, he didn't have to ask about it. That would seem rude.
Acwellen bid the man thanks and walked to his home. Not permanent, but a home. There he slept, knowing soon he'd have the start of an army. How many men did the first Brytenwalda have when he started? Inconsequential. He became legend, and as he did so shall Acwellen.
Chapter 3
Acwellen woke, stretching his tired muscles. The sun had yet to peak over the tops of the houses yet, and that was what he wanted. He dressed quickly, before donning his usual sword which was strapped to his waist. He would leave Gwynedd and head north to Bernicia today. He'd probably make it as far as the northern part of South Rheged if they moved at a nice brisk pace. There would be ten in his party, so he knew, and none of them were mounted. It would be a long walk. Maybe they could raid some horse theif's camp along the way. Didn't matter. He packed onto him what he needed, some supplies and clothes. They'd stop by the market before they left off and pick up some food.
Exitting his once home now, with a large portion of his supplies on his back, he moved through the streets stealthily to the tavern. They would be waiting for him there, he knew. If they weren't, he'd demand double. That was a satisfying thought, actually. But alas, it was not to be. He opened the tavern and he could see nine of them. It wasn't so much the fact that they seemed well introduced so much as that they seemed like they were waiting for someone. There was that... Air around them.
He slipped the note to whom he could only guess was the once-leader of the small group. They all looked at him, introducing themselves in turn and shaking his hand. Acwellen looked around at the group. He would not forget their names, he'd be sure of that. These would be the core of his army. "Where are we bound?" The once-leader had asked. Quietly, but loudly enough so the group could hear, he responded,
"To the marketplace. I have some stuff I want to pick up there first." He could see that the nine there each had their own equipment near them, and probably some food loaded in the packs too. They exited the tavern as a group, and he found it strangely comforting to note that the nine automatically moved into a formation around him, cutting through the crowd. They made their way to the marketplace at an easy pace and Acwellen easily found the merchant whom he'd saved from last night.
The merchant had nine bags of scillings already set aside. Acwellen walked up, accepted the bags from the merchant, then walked away, his sides feeling substantially heavier. It wasn't something he really minded. It was a good feeling. After having left town, they made their way on the road, setting a pace that they could keep for hours, but not too slow so as to get them no where. By the time the sun began to droop toward the horizon like a heavy eyelid, they had found a nice little village. Acwellen paid for some lodging there, as well as did some work to help them out a bit. No one else joined him that day, but they felt stronger.
After a nights rest, they headed off again into North Rheged. While walking at the front of the line, Acwellen gazed out over the road. He was surrounded by trees, silent warriors with too many arms for them to ever use, wielding little blades of leaves. That wasn't what he was worried about. He got the feeling he was being watched. He knew his men could notice it too. Acwellen gripped his sword tightly to make himself feel a little better, before all around him he heard the sound of at least twenty swords unsheathing as one. Acwellen had enough time to turn and face to the left as he watched a raider come crashing out of the trees...
Chapter 4
The Raider was shirtless, and brandished a longsword and shield. As far as Acwellen could tell, the only item of clothing that he had on were long, hardened pants. It didn't matter to Acwellen. The Raider waved his longsword above his head in an attempt to frighten Acwellen, as if that would work. Acwellen responded with a hearty slash to the man's side, from which the man danced away. Around these two, enthroned in their iron dance of death, the battle raged on. Skill was in Acwellen's hands, yet numbers in the Raider's. He counted at least twenty on the initial outburst, and five of them were felled almost an instant after having contacted with Acwellen's men. He saw the head of one of his men roll past him. Apparently he'd taken a couple losses in the initial fighting as well. Acwellen feinted and dodged just under the blade of his assaulter before making one beautiful cut along the waist of the man in front of him. Knowing it wouldn't be enough, Acwellen promptly thrust the blade up into the chest of the man. Bringing one bare fist forward to punch the man, he withdrew his blade from it's fleshy sheath. The man was dead before he even hit the ground.
Turning to face another attacker, he danced forward with his blade in hand. A side cut to the raider's head was blocked, as was a thrust he thought would just make it through. The raider's blade snaked just out of Acwellen's reach and jabbed into the fleshy part of Acwellen's thigh. A rise of pain shot up in Acwellen, but he still took the chance. Swinging his blade in a low arc towards the man, he felt his blade contact with the neck of the man. His blade sheared through bone and skin and muscle, before stopping about halfway through. Acwellen brought up his good leg and gave the man an almighty kick, which sprung his blade loose. The man fell backwards into the ground, leaving his blade embedded in Acwellen's thigh. Around him, the fight was coming to a close as his men finished battles of their own, the iron swords clanging together at such a nice pace. This was the sound he missed, and yet it sounded so very bitter at the time. He counted four of his own men left over, and five of the opponents. One of his men was being hammered hard by two men, and would fail soon. Acwellen sought to give aid to him.
Reaching down and grabbing a dagger concealed just around the boot of the man at his feet, he hefted it silently, before giving it one good toss. The knife sailed through the air, over iron swords clanging violently and grunts of pain and embedded itself into the neck of the second man assaulting his. The man was down quickly, and the instant afterward Acwellen could tell the difference as the man danced forward, relieved of the second assaulter, and did three quick thrusts before parrying a blow and snaking his blade forward in a beautiful arc to cut the man right across the chest from shoulder to hip bone. Acwellen knew he couldn't have done it better himself. After the battle had ended, all that stood before Acwellen were four men and five dead, along with around twenty of his enemy. "Bury the dead. Take our medical equipment from our healer and whatever else we need. Grab food and water enough to last us to the next town. We'll travel a ways before we stop for the night. We want to be as far from this site as possible." The men nodded. The cheery atmosphere from before had died away. They didn't know each other that well but they had still gotten to like each other.
Maybe even enough to call each other friends. One of the men helped tend to Acwellen's wounds, treating the wound with what they had before wrapping a bandage around the wound and sealing it in place. After the dead were well and buried and their supplies gathered, they began to walk away from the scene. It was a pain to think of, but hopefully they'd be able to forget it. Losing half of your fighting men always was a sobering thing. Especially when considering that they could've lost more. Should've, in fact. A doubt began to form in his mind that these were just mere sellswords, but he pushed the doubt away. They'd saved his life this time. He'd question them later. They made it into the northern edge of North Rheged before stopping in a village to sleep that night. Acwellen probably slept the hardest of all of them.
Having a heavy conscience can do that to you.
Chapter 5 - Aedre
Aedre Abeodan was bored.
Severely so, considering he was the highborn son of the lord of Bernicia. Bernicia was currently at war with Gododdin and their allies. Where was he? Commanding an army at the front of the lines, crushing his way through their nation and routing armies larger than his? Was he making the enemies of his father kneel before him? No. He was sitting here, in this drafty great hall, tending court while his father took all the glory.
So, here Aedre sat, waiting for his father to allow him freedom to raise and take forth an army so he might have victories of his own. Meanwhile, he'd be forced to pay court to his father's small council, listen to the pleas and tiresome moans of peasants young and old, and pass judgement. Really, with how much of a bother it was, Aedre didn't exactly look forward to being king. Getting the throne was all fun and games, smashing enemies for the very throne which you wish to hold and such, but once you had it, it was too bothersome to hold almost.
Not only would his father have to deal with all this work and these pleas from his peasants, but he had to defend himself from assassins in the mean time as well. Sure, the feasts were all well and good, but food only lasts for a certain amount of time. Then it's back to the grill. Rubbing his forhead with a sweaty palm, Aedre waited for the last peasant of the day to come in before he would pass judgement and be done with that. When the peasant was gone, he turned to one of his guards, "Watch the throne room and inform me if anyone comes to see me. I'm going for a walk." The guard solemnly nodded. Aedre would've hated to be him even worse. Aedre at least got to sit.
Exitting the throne room in a usual manner, taking a side door which led out into a stunning awning, connected to various walkways along the palace, he looked out into the beautiful view. The sinking sun drifted slowly to fall beneath the horizon, looking absolutely stunning as it sent shimmering beams of brilliant gold and violent red to it's sides. The clouds themselves looked an excellent orange hue.
Despite how excellent of a spectacle it was, Aedre seemed to pay it no mind. He had a different task on his mind. Walking briskly to his room, he arrived and opened the door. Changing swiftly into peasantish clothes accomanied with a dark travellers robe, he snaked out of his room and down into the tavern. Finding the man he wished to speak to that day, he sat down in front of him. "So, let's do business." Were the beginning words. He'd be working late into the night.
Chapter 6 - Acwellen
Acwellen's men were already up and out of the village before sunrise. They danced along the border between Bernaccia and Rheged before actually crossing it. Where were they headed? To the port town of Bebbanburh. He'd heard of a tournament going on there, but not just because of that. He had family in Bebbanburh. Family who would, hopefully, give him some assistance with his current matters. He'd left some bad blood behind in Gwynedd, and hoped not to ever go there again without an army at his back, which was a possibility of getting if he won the tournament here and became more well known. At first, he guessed he could hire sellswords. Maybe even buy slaves and train them in swordplay. He could do quite a bit with the money he'd win from the tournament, if he could do so.
Acwellen steeled his nerves. He'd risk it and bet a good amount of his portion of gold on himself in the early rounds. He wouldn't need to bet much to come out of it rich. Before long, the palisades of Bebbanburh came into view. Acwellen jokingly complained about his feet, but his feet had stopped hurting long ago. To his anticipation, the others nodded to his joke. After reaching the walls, they were briskly checked out by the guards at the door. One of them spoke out "Headin' for the tourny ain't 'cha?" Acwellen winced at his thick northern accent, but merely nodded. "Good luck there. I hear some good folks have come in to fight." Acwellen nodded once more.
This tournament wasn't exactly all knights and chivalry and all that. It was more of a senseless melee. Usually what ended up happening were several 'teams' were formed before the melee, even during, and when it got down to just the people left in the team, then they could turn on each other. Which is what Acwellen would do, except he'd enroll his own personal guards. Total? There'd be five in his team, which wasn't so bad. In reality, the real way to win was to be real good at the meta-game. It was around mid-day right now, so Acwellen headed on over to the tournament grounds to take a look at it. It appeared as if some people were already breaking in the grounds.
Acwellen walked up to the man who appeared to be taking stock of whoever was participating. The man looked up at Acwellen as he passed closer. "I, and four of my warriors, would like to participate in the melee."
The man muttered something which sounded like 'You and five hundred other people.' "Any bets?" He spoke, louder. Acwellen nudged a bag of gold over to the man.
"All on me." The man nodded. He asked for Acwellen's name. "Acwellen." The man rattled off some technical details, such as about what time to be here, what to bring, and a couple other details. Acwellen absently nodded and absorbed the details. So he'd arrived about a day early. That was all right and fine, but he kind of wished it could come faster. Turning to his men after the man was finished, he said, "Now none of you die in there. I'll need you after this." They all nodded. A silly grin was on their face. Probably because they wouldn't have to do so much more walking. They headed off to the nearest tavern, where they drank themselves silly and stumbled up to sleep in a warm bed. Tomorrow was a big day.
Chapter 7 - Aedre
Aedre sat away from the general crowd of people. His business had taken him late into the night, discussing of things to come. His father couldn't keep him away from an army lead forever, and Aedre would command power sooner than his father thought. "Tell me, Leof, of Din Baer's defenses."
Leof knew the subject was coming, so he had been sketching out a drawing of the walls and interior while they'd been discussing stuff that wasn't of any real importance. He pushed the drawing forward, and Aedre snatched it up and began looking over it, before Leof began speaking. "Two walls. Inner and outer. The outer wall houses somewhere between one and two hundred men. The rest are in the inner walls. All in all, somewhere between four and five hundred men guarding the castle. But, after having examined their watch patterns and looking for weak spots, I found that they take hourly shifts. Not only that, but I found a spot in the outer wall, east of the main gate entrance, where we can insert a small, elite group of people."
Aedre sat back as he pondered this. A small elite group could do the work of a hundred when inserted in the right location. A small assassination group could not only eliminate a large amount of the guards on shift where they wanted to, but they could open the gates. Maybe even think of a couple clever ways to hinder the guards and prevent them from rushing to close the gates too fast. Ideally, they'd want someone who could do this and more. Apparently, Leof had been ready to bring up this point, because he pushed forward a poster for the melee tomorrow. "We can select our group from these." Aedre seemed appalled to say the least.
"These are nothing more than sellswords and ex-warriors looking for a 'get rich quick' scenario." Leof looked him in the eye and grinned.
"Perhaps, but some of our best are in there as well. Even if they are sellswords and ex-warriors, as you say, they're looking for a get rich quick scenario. We grease the winner's hand a little bit to convince him to help us out, along with a couple more of the warriors in there who you think performed well. We have ourselves an elite group of ex-warriors and sellswords. And their minds are more well suited to this kind of espionage than you and I are."
Aedre had to concede on that point. He still didn't really like it. Given the time, he'd train his own group of men on it, but he didn't have the time... So he'd go with Leof's plan. There was more to discuss though. "The inner gates?" Leof shook his head.
"Near impregnable. However, should we manage to create a sufficient distraction to send the inner city guards away from one side of the wall, a skilled group could scale the walls and open the inner gates, giving us a clear shot in."
Aedre shook his head slowly. "Lemme guess. The sellsword group."
Leof clapped his hands for the young lord. "You're learning. Yes, they'll enter and we'll get both gates open. We'll be into the inner castle before they even knew what hit them. Din Baer will fall like a house of cards."
Aedre wasn't done just yet.
"What about the White Guard?" Leof flinched at the name. It wasn't something Leof appeared to enjoy discussing. The White Guard were a group of people who were assigned to each castle, maybe five to a castle. More to a bigger city. They were the elite of the Goddodin kingdom, and were feared as guardsmen.
"Maybe we'll get lucky and our elites will be able to take them down." Aedre doubted it, unless they got really lucky with their sellswords and ex-warriors.
"I sincerely hope so, Leof. I really do." Aedre stood and shook hands with the man.
"I'll choose my men tomorrow, but not darn well until then. Maybe we'll get lucky." Leof shrugged.
"Some sellswords are better than others. Sleep well, Aedre."
Aedre nodded with a 'you too' and headed off to sleep.
Din Baer would fall, and when the news reached his father, his father would probably be a mix of furious and proud. He only wished he would be able to see the look on his father's face.
A hush of wind blew over the cool battlefield. Wet blood trickled down grass all too red for their natural color. In the field, one man stood. Alone. His companions were fallen. His enemies were slain by his own sword. Yet still, the man stood so very much alone. In his left hand he clutched a sword, so very fine and so well made. In his right, a shield as strong as an ox and as big as a man's chest. Blood spattered his face and thick auburn hair, but he did not despair. It was not his blood. His leader lay on the ground not three feet from him, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. Stumbling over to his leader, he kneeled beside his slain leader. Placing his mailed hand over the man's eyes, he closed them and allowed him rest, laying the man's sword over his chest. Standing, he saw the field for what it was. A field of corpses. A graveyard. The battle was lost. His friends dead. Where was the genius of his leader? Where was the chance of victory? Could things have been different? It was something he'd wonder for years to come.
Chapter One
The year was Anno Domini 639 in the year of our Lord. It was a cold winter. Three years had passed since young Acwellen Aedre had witnessed his third battle, and greatest defeat. He had been around the age of twenty three then, and was a young warrior. Some of the grizzled veterans there had deemed him too young, too hot headed and brash. Yet he was alive and they were dead. The battle was a setup. His leader had never stood a chance. Outnumbered three to one, the men there fought valiently. But it wasn't enough, and the red blood of their Saxon horde stained the field red. A mace to Acwellen's head had knocked him out and saved his life. Later he was awoken to crows pecking at him. He was the last man of his army, or so he believed. He knew not how many ran. He knew not how many's cowardice had saved them that day. It mattered not to him. Twenty six, but he felt as old as sixty two. That one battle had really sobered him, and his small group of followers knew it.
It had taken him a couple months to reach a town after the battle. There he'd drunk himself into a pit, but he wasn't in debt even after two years of whoring and drinking. He'd stayed above water somehow. This was the third year, and he decided to finally sober up. He knew for a fact that a man of his stature, being pretty well unknown, wasn't going to be able to get anyone to follow him. He'd be more like to be forced to follow someone else. But he'd had enough of that. Making a name for himself was going to be hard, he knew. Just how he'd get some men to follow him was a hard enough problem. Arming them with weapons sufficient enough to keep them alive was another matter altogether. Acwellen himself was well armored, but at best he looked like a rich sellsword. At worst, he looked like a outlaw knight.
But that was of no consequence to Acwellen. He had bigger matters on his mind. Like getting out of the way of this drunkard in front of him who appeared to want to smash his face.
"Call me a sucklin' pig will ya? I'll beat you bloody." Really, Acwellen had said nothing of the sort... But he was never one to turn down a fight. The drunkard threw a right hook, but Acwellen saw it coming. Blocking the punch and returning in kind was all too easy, and a thick wet stream of red liquid began pouring down the drunkard's face. That should've sobered the drunkard, but now he was mad so he continued with a storm of fist strikes. Acwellen, cool and tempered knew to block each strike. He wasn't attempting to assault right now. When the man he was facing made a fault, he struck there. Placing a foot behind the other man's foot and putting all his weight on the man's neck, he pretty much threw the man to the floor.
The man hit the ground hard and made to get up, but Acwellen had already drawn his sword and the man's throat touched against cool, tempered steel. The man swallowed, but yielded. He appeared sober enough now. Acwellen sheathed his sword and let the man run away. That wasn't good of him. Drawing a sword to a barehanded man wasn't exactly polite... But Acwellen wasn't exactly the most polite of people. He exited the tavern now. He'd have to make a name for himself, and beating drunkards bloody wasn't exactly the way to go. It was a cool night, and the wind pulled at his garments. Soon enough people would learn his name. He'd start soon.
Chapter two
"Oh, you're a pretty lass." He heard from down an alley. The girl's cries of 'No! Please!' were loud and irritating, but the man silenced her with a slap. What was he to do? Go in a hero and kill every last one excepting the girl, bed her and then have her spread his tale? Perhaps, but he was going for something bigger. He walked on. Later in the night, he saw a person being held up by three robbers. The man being held up was fat and wealthy. He was begging them to spare him, that he'd pay them money to go away. The men shrugged. They'd take it all from him anyways.
"Now, give us all you have or we'll gut you and take it anyways."
"Please, no!" The man cried out. They seemed not to care, and a man moved forward to kill the man. If only he could. A knife blade sprouted from the man's throat, and he stopped. He fell forward.
"Jimmy? Jimmy no!" One of the robbers cried. Apparently, the one he'd just killed was Jimmy. Probably a lock picker, and their only good one at that from how he was being mourned. There were still two more robbers, and they turned to face him. Why was he helping this man?
Because he was rich. That meant this man could pay him, and pay him well. Heck, maybe this man could even give him some swords to serve him. A man was always greatful for his life. The two robbers moved forward, confident. They outnumbered him, but he could see from the way they held their swords that they were weak. Untrained. One moved forward ready to strike and Acwellen moved to meet the strike. It was a sidecut to his left, so he blocked the strike and rolled along it to get closer. Once he was in good range, he kneed the man in the chest. The man stumbled back, winded. He got a chance to look up before Acwellen took off his head. The other moved forward, now angry. A flurry of blows were exchanged, for it appeared this one had some slight skill. Inconsequential, for the man made a blunder and Acwellen hamstringed the guy, getting him on his knees, before stabbing his blade through the man's heart.
Turning to face the man whom he'd just saved, he could see the awe and gratitude all too visible on the man's face. "You saved my life. Thank you! Is it gold you want? Women? Riches? I'll pay you back for my life." Acwellen surveyed the man. It appeared the man was more rich than he had thought, but that was good. Acwellen bowed to the man, before standing. "I slew three men for you today. I would like to request that you provide me with six sworn bodyguards and enough money to pay for them for a year." It wasn't actually a lot. It was money that the merchant probably made in a good sale's day, and the man bowed and kissed the ground in thanks.
"You may have that and more. I'll provide you with nine." A cold grin spread across Acwellen's face. Nine. He could face small parties of bandits with that. And enough money to pay for them for a year... He'd get some income by then, and maybe even some more men. Acwellen bowed again.
"You are too kind." The man nodded his fat little head.
"They will be at the tavern by sunrise tomorrow. Just give them this note and they'll follow you, and you'll find me at the marketplace selling goods to get your money." The man said. This was good, he didn't have to ask about it. That would seem rude.
Acwellen bid the man thanks and walked to his home. Not permanent, but a home. There he slept, knowing soon he'd have the start of an army. How many men did the first Brytenwalda have when he started? Inconsequential. He became legend, and as he did so shall Acwellen.
Chapter 3
Acwellen woke, stretching his tired muscles. The sun had yet to peak over the tops of the houses yet, and that was what he wanted. He dressed quickly, before donning his usual sword which was strapped to his waist. He would leave Gwynedd and head north to Bernicia today. He'd probably make it as far as the northern part of South Rheged if they moved at a nice brisk pace. There would be ten in his party, so he knew, and none of them were mounted. It would be a long walk. Maybe they could raid some horse theif's camp along the way. Didn't matter. He packed onto him what he needed, some supplies and clothes. They'd stop by the market before they left off and pick up some food.
Exitting his once home now, with a large portion of his supplies on his back, he moved through the streets stealthily to the tavern. They would be waiting for him there, he knew. If they weren't, he'd demand double. That was a satisfying thought, actually. But alas, it was not to be. He opened the tavern and he could see nine of them. It wasn't so much the fact that they seemed well introduced so much as that they seemed like they were waiting for someone. There was that... Air around them.
He slipped the note to whom he could only guess was the once-leader of the small group. They all looked at him, introducing themselves in turn and shaking his hand. Acwellen looked around at the group. He would not forget their names, he'd be sure of that. These would be the core of his army. "Where are we bound?" The once-leader had asked. Quietly, but loudly enough so the group could hear, he responded,
"To the marketplace. I have some stuff I want to pick up there first." He could see that the nine there each had their own equipment near them, and probably some food loaded in the packs too. They exited the tavern as a group, and he found it strangely comforting to note that the nine automatically moved into a formation around him, cutting through the crowd. They made their way to the marketplace at an easy pace and Acwellen easily found the merchant whom he'd saved from last night.
The merchant had nine bags of scillings already set aside. Acwellen walked up, accepted the bags from the merchant, then walked away, his sides feeling substantially heavier. It wasn't something he really minded. It was a good feeling. After having left town, they made their way on the road, setting a pace that they could keep for hours, but not too slow so as to get them no where. By the time the sun began to droop toward the horizon like a heavy eyelid, they had found a nice little village. Acwellen paid for some lodging there, as well as did some work to help them out a bit. No one else joined him that day, but they felt stronger.
After a nights rest, they headed off again into North Rheged. While walking at the front of the line, Acwellen gazed out over the road. He was surrounded by trees, silent warriors with too many arms for them to ever use, wielding little blades of leaves. That wasn't what he was worried about. He got the feeling he was being watched. He knew his men could notice it too. Acwellen gripped his sword tightly to make himself feel a little better, before all around him he heard the sound of at least twenty swords unsheathing as one. Acwellen had enough time to turn and face to the left as he watched a raider come crashing out of the trees...
Chapter 4
The Raider was shirtless, and brandished a longsword and shield. As far as Acwellen could tell, the only item of clothing that he had on were long, hardened pants. It didn't matter to Acwellen. The Raider waved his longsword above his head in an attempt to frighten Acwellen, as if that would work. Acwellen responded with a hearty slash to the man's side, from which the man danced away. Around these two, enthroned in their iron dance of death, the battle raged on. Skill was in Acwellen's hands, yet numbers in the Raider's. He counted at least twenty on the initial outburst, and five of them were felled almost an instant after having contacted with Acwellen's men. He saw the head of one of his men roll past him. Apparently he'd taken a couple losses in the initial fighting as well. Acwellen feinted and dodged just under the blade of his assaulter before making one beautiful cut along the waist of the man in front of him. Knowing it wouldn't be enough, Acwellen promptly thrust the blade up into the chest of the man. Bringing one bare fist forward to punch the man, he withdrew his blade from it's fleshy sheath. The man was dead before he even hit the ground.
Turning to face another attacker, he danced forward with his blade in hand. A side cut to the raider's head was blocked, as was a thrust he thought would just make it through. The raider's blade snaked just out of Acwellen's reach and jabbed into the fleshy part of Acwellen's thigh. A rise of pain shot up in Acwellen, but he still took the chance. Swinging his blade in a low arc towards the man, he felt his blade contact with the neck of the man. His blade sheared through bone and skin and muscle, before stopping about halfway through. Acwellen brought up his good leg and gave the man an almighty kick, which sprung his blade loose. The man fell backwards into the ground, leaving his blade embedded in Acwellen's thigh. Around him, the fight was coming to a close as his men finished battles of their own, the iron swords clanging together at such a nice pace. This was the sound he missed, and yet it sounded so very bitter at the time. He counted four of his own men left over, and five of the opponents. One of his men was being hammered hard by two men, and would fail soon. Acwellen sought to give aid to him.
Reaching down and grabbing a dagger concealed just around the boot of the man at his feet, he hefted it silently, before giving it one good toss. The knife sailed through the air, over iron swords clanging violently and grunts of pain and embedded itself into the neck of the second man assaulting his. The man was down quickly, and the instant afterward Acwellen could tell the difference as the man danced forward, relieved of the second assaulter, and did three quick thrusts before parrying a blow and snaking his blade forward in a beautiful arc to cut the man right across the chest from shoulder to hip bone. Acwellen knew he couldn't have done it better himself. After the battle had ended, all that stood before Acwellen were four men and five dead, along with around twenty of his enemy. "Bury the dead. Take our medical equipment from our healer and whatever else we need. Grab food and water enough to last us to the next town. We'll travel a ways before we stop for the night. We want to be as far from this site as possible." The men nodded. The cheery atmosphere from before had died away. They didn't know each other that well but they had still gotten to like each other.
Maybe even enough to call each other friends. One of the men helped tend to Acwellen's wounds, treating the wound with what they had before wrapping a bandage around the wound and sealing it in place. After the dead were well and buried and their supplies gathered, they began to walk away from the scene. It was a pain to think of, but hopefully they'd be able to forget it. Losing half of your fighting men always was a sobering thing. Especially when considering that they could've lost more. Should've, in fact. A doubt began to form in his mind that these were just mere sellswords, but he pushed the doubt away. They'd saved his life this time. He'd question them later. They made it into the northern edge of North Rheged before stopping in a village to sleep that night. Acwellen probably slept the hardest of all of them.
Having a heavy conscience can do that to you.
Chapter 5 - Aedre
Aedre Abeodan was bored.
Severely so, considering he was the highborn son of the lord of Bernicia. Bernicia was currently at war with Gododdin and their allies. Where was he? Commanding an army at the front of the lines, crushing his way through their nation and routing armies larger than his? Was he making the enemies of his father kneel before him? No. He was sitting here, in this drafty great hall, tending court while his father took all the glory.
So, here Aedre sat, waiting for his father to allow him freedom to raise and take forth an army so he might have victories of his own. Meanwhile, he'd be forced to pay court to his father's small council, listen to the pleas and tiresome moans of peasants young and old, and pass judgement. Really, with how much of a bother it was, Aedre didn't exactly look forward to being king. Getting the throne was all fun and games, smashing enemies for the very throne which you wish to hold and such, but once you had it, it was too bothersome to hold almost.
Not only would his father have to deal with all this work and these pleas from his peasants, but he had to defend himself from assassins in the mean time as well. Sure, the feasts were all well and good, but food only lasts for a certain amount of time. Then it's back to the grill. Rubbing his forhead with a sweaty palm, Aedre waited for the last peasant of the day to come in before he would pass judgement and be done with that. When the peasant was gone, he turned to one of his guards, "Watch the throne room and inform me if anyone comes to see me. I'm going for a walk." The guard solemnly nodded. Aedre would've hated to be him even worse. Aedre at least got to sit.
Exitting the throne room in a usual manner, taking a side door which led out into a stunning awning, connected to various walkways along the palace, he looked out into the beautiful view. The sinking sun drifted slowly to fall beneath the horizon, looking absolutely stunning as it sent shimmering beams of brilliant gold and violent red to it's sides. The clouds themselves looked an excellent orange hue.
Despite how excellent of a spectacle it was, Aedre seemed to pay it no mind. He had a different task on his mind. Walking briskly to his room, he arrived and opened the door. Changing swiftly into peasantish clothes accomanied with a dark travellers robe, he snaked out of his room and down into the tavern. Finding the man he wished to speak to that day, he sat down in front of him. "So, let's do business." Were the beginning words. He'd be working late into the night.
Chapter 6 - Acwellen
Acwellen's men were already up and out of the village before sunrise. They danced along the border between Bernaccia and Rheged before actually crossing it. Where were they headed? To the port town of Bebbanburh. He'd heard of a tournament going on there, but not just because of that. He had family in Bebbanburh. Family who would, hopefully, give him some assistance with his current matters. He'd left some bad blood behind in Gwynedd, and hoped not to ever go there again without an army at his back, which was a possibility of getting if he won the tournament here and became more well known. At first, he guessed he could hire sellswords. Maybe even buy slaves and train them in swordplay. He could do quite a bit with the money he'd win from the tournament, if he could do so.
Acwellen steeled his nerves. He'd risk it and bet a good amount of his portion of gold on himself in the early rounds. He wouldn't need to bet much to come out of it rich. Before long, the palisades of Bebbanburh came into view. Acwellen jokingly complained about his feet, but his feet had stopped hurting long ago. To his anticipation, the others nodded to his joke. After reaching the walls, they were briskly checked out by the guards at the door. One of them spoke out "Headin' for the tourny ain't 'cha?" Acwellen winced at his thick northern accent, but merely nodded. "Good luck there. I hear some good folks have come in to fight." Acwellen nodded once more.
This tournament wasn't exactly all knights and chivalry and all that. It was more of a senseless melee. Usually what ended up happening were several 'teams' were formed before the melee, even during, and when it got down to just the people left in the team, then they could turn on each other. Which is what Acwellen would do, except he'd enroll his own personal guards. Total? There'd be five in his team, which wasn't so bad. In reality, the real way to win was to be real good at the meta-game. It was around mid-day right now, so Acwellen headed on over to the tournament grounds to take a look at it. It appeared as if some people were already breaking in the grounds.
Acwellen walked up to the man who appeared to be taking stock of whoever was participating. The man looked up at Acwellen as he passed closer. "I, and four of my warriors, would like to participate in the melee."
The man muttered something which sounded like 'You and five hundred other people.' "Any bets?" He spoke, louder. Acwellen nudged a bag of gold over to the man.
"All on me." The man nodded. He asked for Acwellen's name. "Acwellen." The man rattled off some technical details, such as about what time to be here, what to bring, and a couple other details. Acwellen absently nodded and absorbed the details. So he'd arrived about a day early. That was all right and fine, but he kind of wished it could come faster. Turning to his men after the man was finished, he said, "Now none of you die in there. I'll need you after this." They all nodded. A silly grin was on their face. Probably because they wouldn't have to do so much more walking. They headed off to the nearest tavern, where they drank themselves silly and stumbled up to sleep in a warm bed. Tomorrow was a big day.
Chapter 7 - Aedre
Aedre sat away from the general crowd of people. His business had taken him late into the night, discussing of things to come. His father couldn't keep him away from an army lead forever, and Aedre would command power sooner than his father thought. "Tell me, Leof, of Din Baer's defenses."
Leof knew the subject was coming, so he had been sketching out a drawing of the walls and interior while they'd been discussing stuff that wasn't of any real importance. He pushed the drawing forward, and Aedre snatched it up and began looking over it, before Leof began speaking. "Two walls. Inner and outer. The outer wall houses somewhere between one and two hundred men. The rest are in the inner walls. All in all, somewhere between four and five hundred men guarding the castle. But, after having examined their watch patterns and looking for weak spots, I found that they take hourly shifts. Not only that, but I found a spot in the outer wall, east of the main gate entrance, where we can insert a small, elite group of people."
Aedre sat back as he pondered this. A small elite group could do the work of a hundred when inserted in the right location. A small assassination group could not only eliminate a large amount of the guards on shift where they wanted to, but they could open the gates. Maybe even think of a couple clever ways to hinder the guards and prevent them from rushing to close the gates too fast. Ideally, they'd want someone who could do this and more. Apparently, Leof had been ready to bring up this point, because he pushed forward a poster for the melee tomorrow. "We can select our group from these." Aedre seemed appalled to say the least.
"These are nothing more than sellswords and ex-warriors looking for a 'get rich quick' scenario." Leof looked him in the eye and grinned.
"Perhaps, but some of our best are in there as well. Even if they are sellswords and ex-warriors, as you say, they're looking for a get rich quick scenario. We grease the winner's hand a little bit to convince him to help us out, along with a couple more of the warriors in there who you think performed well. We have ourselves an elite group of ex-warriors and sellswords. And their minds are more well suited to this kind of espionage than you and I are."
Aedre had to concede on that point. He still didn't really like it. Given the time, he'd train his own group of men on it, but he didn't have the time... So he'd go with Leof's plan. There was more to discuss though. "The inner gates?" Leof shook his head.
"Near impregnable. However, should we manage to create a sufficient distraction to send the inner city guards away from one side of the wall, a skilled group could scale the walls and open the inner gates, giving us a clear shot in."
Aedre shook his head slowly. "Lemme guess. The sellsword group."
Leof clapped his hands for the young lord. "You're learning. Yes, they'll enter and we'll get both gates open. We'll be into the inner castle before they even knew what hit them. Din Baer will fall like a house of cards."
Aedre wasn't done just yet.
"What about the White Guard?" Leof flinched at the name. It wasn't something Leof appeared to enjoy discussing. The White Guard were a group of people who were assigned to each castle, maybe five to a castle. More to a bigger city. They were the elite of the Goddodin kingdom, and were feared as guardsmen.
"Maybe we'll get lucky and our elites will be able to take them down." Aedre doubted it, unless they got really lucky with their sellswords and ex-warriors.
"I sincerely hope so, Leof. I really do." Aedre stood and shook hands with the man.
"I'll choose my men tomorrow, but not darn well until then. Maybe we'll get lucky." Leof shrugged.
"Some sellswords are better than others. Sleep well, Aedre."
Aedre nodded with a 'you too' and headed off to sleep.
Din Baer would fall, and when the news reached his father, his father would probably be a mix of furious and proud. He only wished he would be able to see the look on his father's face.
