Chapter I: Of Men And Kings
The first rays of sunlight crept across Calradia, and the land in slumber slowly prepared to rise anew for another day. In about 10 minutes, the first roosters will announce the coming of dawn, breaking their masters’ blissful sleep. In about an hour, Vlad will wake up his son, and prepare himself for another long day at the busy market of Reyvadin. Ordinarily, they would make their way to Curaw instead, but the travelling merchants coming from the southern bank of Strazovoda brought grave news. A great Norse host was supposedly making its way to Curaw; a siege will probably begin there shortly. No, as longer the trip and lower the profits will be this way, running into an army would be far worse. In an hour, they will leave their small fishermen’s village on Strazovoda’s northern bank; the river had another, ancient name, but it’s been known by this, simpler one, for as long as anyone could remember. Its crossings have been battlegrounds for Vaegir and Norse armies for ages, and both peoples held many watchtowers and smaller forts along the banks. In the last few decades, however, many of the forts were left to rot and ruin as peace reigned between the two Kings, and both had other enemies to deal with.
Until the current war broke out, of course.
King Yagorlek saw a golden opportunity to strike at his ancient enemy’s lands two years ago, whilst the Norse were busy fighting the Regent of Swadia in the Jelbegi Pass. His bad timing has already become quite legendary, for his host marched out on the very day the Norse signed peace with Swadia after the Jelbegi bloodbath. Nevertheless,Yagorlek managed to pillage his way to Sargoth itself, before Ragnar and his 2000 Norsemen arrived, utterly breaking the Vaegir host beneath Sargoth’s very walls. With the Vaegir armies scattered to the four winds, Ragnar has, all things considered, an easy way into the Vaegir lands. No one, however, knew what his plan was. Until today.
In about 3 hours, the sun will have risen over Calradia, and Vlad and his son will already be crossing the nearest bridge south. As their wagon slowly makes its way to the other side, they will suddenly stop, quite shocked, as they see smoke rising high from the ancient Ismirala castle, the biggest Vaegir holding on the riverbank.
In exactly 42 seconds, the young lad will scream in terror, as he watches a Nord arrow pierce his father’s eye.
“Will you tell me, Eadric, now that it’s all over, why you seem so distraught? Does the taste of pure, unshaken victory not lay firmly upon your tongue?”, Ragnar asked playfully, as he watched his men burn the old tapestries in Rolcha’s halls.
The taste of victory…Somehow, I can feel only the taste of blood. Innocent blood. Nevertheless, Eadric Holt was no fool, and he promptly forced a smile upon his lips.
“It tastes as sweetly as a maiden’s blood, I assure Your Grace.” To this, the King laughed heartily, and helped himself quite eagerly to some stuffed chicken.
“Could it be, my young friend, that I was mistaken about you after all? Are you truly one of us now, a Norseman, or just another craven, like the multitudes that surround my realm?” Ragnar suddenly looked annoyed enough, to be sure, but Eadric has spent enough time with the King to know when he was truly angry about something. This, luckily, was not such a time.
I’ll let you have your fun as always, my Liege; we both know I wouldn’t be standing here if you truly doubted me.
Well, at least not with my head on, at any rate.
It still seemed quite incredible to him, even now; just a few months back, Eadric was just one of the many immigrants from across the Sea; a fresh arrival in Sargoth, but one eager for work. What ended up setting him apart from scores of beggars that filled up the lowest slums of the Norse capital, was actually pure chance.
During his first two weeks in the city, he earned his daily meals by running errands for a local tavern-keeper down at the docks; on one fateful evening, in a narrow alleyway, he ran into a mugger just as he set to work on his newest victim; a well-standing gentleman who turned out to be the Guildmaster of Sargoth himself, after Eadric rescued him from the assailant. Guildmaster Folkvar was immensely grateful, and sooner than later, Eadric found himself collecting taxes from nearby villages, ridding the countryside of bandits and thieves with his little band, and generally helping the Guildmaster with anything he needed done.
Naturally, when the Swadians declared war, Ragnar turned to his Guildmaster for men he could trust to be a part of his host, and of his personal entourage. During the already infamous Battle of Jelbegi Pass, which lasted for nearly a month before the Swadians finally yielded and signed peace, the King took a great liking to Eadric. He was witty, but he could also handle himself in battle well enough, and by the time Ragnar turned east to face the Vaegirs, Eadric rarely left his side. Except, of course, when Ragnar needed something done discreetly, something he couldn’t trust just anyone to finish accordingly.
The previous night was such an occasion, one Eadric would not forget for the remainder of his life.
The King had summoned him to his tent two days after the siege of Ismirala Castle began.
“I have the map right in front of me, Eadric; some of that damn Yagorlek’s lords have regrouped, and are preparing to lay siege to Wercheg. He’s left Boyar Rolcha in charge of Ismirala, however, and unfortunately for us, he’s got enough food in there to last him a year, and 200 men to eat it all. Should we linger for that long here, Wercheg will fall, and that is something I cannot allow.”
“I understand, Your Grace, but why have you summoned me? I doubt there is anything I could do about it.” Ragnar smiled darkly.
“You’d be surprised, young Eadric. You’d be surprised…”
Four hours later, sometime after midnight, Eadric had found himself, along with twenty men he handpicked himself, mounted, clad in armour and hand on swordhilt, on the outskirts of the biggest village swearing fealty to Ismirala castle of the same name. As the King explained, Rolcha has only one weakness they could exploit.
He cares.
“He cares about the people, Eadric, and that shall be his undoing.”
The plan itself was simple enough; Eadric and his men would provide a distraction, and draw out the Lord of Ismirala out of his keep, hopefully along with a substantial number of his garrison. The King would then, under the night’s veil, take the weakened fort by storm, and leave the tricked Rolcha outside his own walls, between a conquered castle and a ruined village. Between the hammer and the anvil, he said.
“A fire should suffice,” he said.
“A big fire, though.”
Eadric Holt would never, ever forget the moment he quietly gave the order to his men, and seeing them gallop down the hill, swords and torches in hand. At that moment, only one of them lingered behind, still standing next to Eadric.
“Everyone, m’lord?” Eadric felt a lump form in his throat. He had to remain strong, though; Ragnar gave him a home, Ragnar gave him gold, Ragnar gave him a new life.
And Ragnar could, just as easily, take it.
“I am no Lord.”
“Still; everyone?” Eadric looked down upon the village, and saw houses were already burning, as a woman’s shriek ripped through the night. He quietly nodded, and found himself alone upon the small hill, looking at the dust the last man’s horse left behind its charge.
“Craven? No, my Liege, that I am not.”
Ragnar seemed to be, for the moment, satisfied, and a smile beamed on his face once more, as the castle's last tapestries bearing Vaegir heraldry burned, and his servant brought him yet another cup of wine.
Do keep some more coming, aye?
