The Free Company of Brígh

[The Elusive Mr. Hunt]

[This is based, obviously, in Calradia. But not really on a particular campaign or anything. I've not got any real concrete plans, but I do have plenty of ideas - so hopefully I should be able to carry it on.]

Lord Edmund Klargus, the Duke of Suno, looked on appalled at the man in front of him,

“Lieutenant Fechin, sir,” the man said, saluting sloppily, “from the Free Company of Brígh.” 

The source of Klargus’ shock was the appearance of the mercenary in front of him; his entire kit seemed to have been looted from a hundred different battlefields. His chainmail coat, reaching down to his knees, was pock-marked with ill-repaired rents including, Klargus noted with distaste, one reddish-stained rent just where the man’s heart would be. His boots appeared to be those of a steppe nomad, and the helm he held under his arm was a guard helmet of the kind Swadian Sergeants wore.  A short stabbing sword, that looked Nordic in manufacture, hung from his worn leather belt, and the chipped blade of an axe poked above the man’s shoulder. The mercenary’s nose had been badly broken, more than once it appeared, and his blond beard and hair were stiff with accumulated dirt and grease. His eyes were dark blue, watchful. He noted the Swadian Lord’s inspection and grinned, exposing his crooked yellow teeth,

“A fine haul, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Lord Klargus’ second-in-command, Lord Henry Grainwad the Viscount of Kelredan, responded drily, “You are the representative from the Free Company, the mercenaries sent by King Harlaus?”

“Aye, sir. All ready to skin some of them Nord bastards,” he paused, his grin taking on a slightly wolfish edge, “if you’ll pardon my Rhodok.”

“You command the Company?”

“Nah…that’d be the Captain, Corentin. He’s, uh, indisposed at the minute.” 

“Indisposed?” Lord Grainwad asked, raising an eyebrow,

“Aye, sir…” he dropped his voice, aiming at confidentiality – though the guards at the command tent’s entrance were well schooled in hearing only what they should, “I can tell you sirs,” he explained, “‘cause we’re all men of high status, but it ain’t good to let the troops hear this kinda thing. The Captain and us officers-”

Lord Grainwad interrupted him, “Officers?”

“Yeah, me and Lieutenant Roran.” 

Next to the bald Viscount, Lord Klargus looked disgusted at being considered in the same social group as the…creature in front of him. When he heard Lieutenant Fechin’s response to Grainwad’s question, his shock increased “You have just two officers in your company?”

“No! We got three, sir. You forgot the Captain himself.”

“Dear god…” the Swadian muttered under his breath,

“You were telling us about why your Captain was ‘indisposed’.” Lord Grainwad prompted Fechin.

“Yeah, as I were saying, us officers were having a bit of a drinking contest last night and the Captain, well,” Fechin’s grin widened once more, “he lost.”

There was a long pause. Finally Lord Grainwad drew a deep breath, and spoke, “Let me clarify this. Your Captain is unavailable to meet with his new Commander because he has a…hangover? Correct?”

“Aye. That’d be it, sir.”

“As I thought. Kindly inform your Captain that when the Duke Klargus and I ask for a subordinate to report to us we mean just that; they must report to us; not send one of their second-in-commands.”

A slight smile played at the corner of the mercenary lieutenant’s mouth, “Tell him just that, should I?”

“Yes,” Lord Grainwad snapped irritably, “Now good day.”

Recognising the dismissal, Fechin turned and left the command tent – still smirking at the reaction he’d caused.

There was a long silence after the scruffy mercenary left the Lords’ company. Klargus slowly drew a hand over his lined face, “Dear God, Henry.” He said plaintively, “Why did the King send us such a miserable group?”

Lord Grainwad tugged at his ginger goatee beard, as he was wont to do when thinking deeply, “I admit I too am at a loss, Edmund. Though,” he said thoughtfully, “we have not yet seen them in battle.”

Lord Klargus’ almost perpetual look of misery was replaced by another common look, shock, “Why would we need to!” he cried, “Did you not see the wretched fellow? He hardly looked like a proper soldier to me.”

Grainwad sighed, his Commander could be particularly grating at times, “My dear Edmund. How many times must I have to tell you that a soldier’s prowess is not only indicated by how smart his uniform is? Just look at the string of victories the Khergits have achieved over Lord Plais in the South. Their prowess is undoubted, but have you ever seen their uniforms, if they can even be called such? They dress for war like the goat herding nomads they once were!”

The Duke nodded slowly, mulling over in his head what Lord Grainwad had said, “So you believe King Harlaus may have sent us these men because of their fighting ability?”

“Precisely.” His second-in-command responded, thinking that getting Klargus to accept an idea wasn’t so different from killing a Nord – you just had to bash it into their thick skull; ‘it’ being, of course, a morningstar for the latter and an idea for the former.

“But we don’t really need help, do we?”

Lord Grainwad mentally shook himself back into the present, “Uh, pardon, Edmund?”

“You were saying that the King sent us those mercenaries to help our campaigns against the Nords. But its not like we need help, is it?”

The bald Viscount smiled sadly, wondering just how detached from reality his Commander was, “Of course not. We shall win this campaign with or without one mercenary company. The King was probably just sending them to you in gratitude for your fine services so far.”

Klargus still looked doubtful, “He sent me them to show his gratitude? Is that not an insult?”

“Edmund, my dear friend. You think too much. King Harlaus obviously thought some more troops could only be helpful in your campaigns. I’m sure there is nothing more to it than that.”

“You are right, of course. Merely extra help…I believe the matter is done now, then? Good. I believe I shall now shave, and prepare for the day. So if you would be so kind as to…”

“Of course.” Lord Grainwad took his leave of the Commander, and stepped outside into the morning sun.

As he walked the short distance to his own tent, he reflected on how this Nordic campaign was really going, Klargus’ delusions aside. The Nords were refusing all major set-piece battles. Instead they launched small raids into the rich lands that formed the Vale of Suno, and endlessly harassed the Swadian scouts with ambushes. The more impetuous lords, such as Lord Ryis the Viscount of Derchios, urged for Klargus to lead his army deep into the heart of the Nords’ lands, aiming to strike at the capital at Sargoth, and so force a battle upon the wily King Ragnar. But Grainwad and others had argued strongly against this course of action, telling the Duke that if he attacked that far he would leave most of the Vale unprotected, and the Nords would simply skirt around their army to strike at Suno and its environs. The Rhodoks might even attack from over the hills in Yalen. So Klargus had settled on a compromise. Currently they were now bogged down in a long siege of Tehlrog Castle, which was being ably defended by its Lord, Turegor. After his initial wave had been bloodily repulsed by Turegor’s huscarls, Klargus had settled down to starve the enemy out – too afraid of loosing yet more of his men in another assault. And so outside the castle they stayed.

Reaching the top of the small rise upon which his tent was pitched, Lord Grainwad turned to look at Tehlrog. Turegor’s red and white rose banner fluttered defiantly from its battlements. The Swadian sighed and, turning his back on the castle, entered his tent.

***

Fechin walked through the sprawling Swadian encampment, towards the Bríghan one on its outskirts. After emerging from the supremely organised main camp, with its parallel lines of tents and clearly marked zones for each separate unit, the Bríghan camp looked like a shambles. But, Fechin thought happily, it was a familiar shambles. Somewhere he was used to. He moved quickly past the ragged tents clumped in small groups around smouldering camp fires, seeing no-one. It was apparently too early for the Bríghans.  Roughly at the centre of the encampment stood Captain Corentin’s own tent, with Fechin’s tent off to one side, and Roran’s on the other. Corentin’s was distinguishable from all the others Fechin had past only by the flag that flew next to its entrance. That flag was the Free Company’s official banner, and had previously been the banner that had flown from Brígh’s walls – before the Nordic raids. It showed a rearing white stag on a red background. Or, at least, it should have; years of rain had caused some of the red dye to run into the form of the stag – leaving its edges blurred and the body itself streaked with pink-coloured stripes.

Pushing the tent’s flap to one side, Fechin entered. As he had guessed, Corentin still slept.  He looked down at his sleeping Captain. He lay on the dirt floor, swathed in animal furs. A slight frown was visible on his forehead, but apart from that his gaunt face looked peaceful. Grabbing Corentin’s waterskin, he emptied the contents over its owner’s face. The Captain spluttered as the water splashed over his face and trickled into his open mouth, and his grey eyes flickered open. Groaning, the man pushed himself up onto one elbow; the furs had dropped, revealing his lean and scarred chest. His long brown hair dripped with water as he stared malevolently at his lieutenant,

“What,” he asked menacingly, once slightly recovered, “do you want?”

Fechin grinned, “I went to the Swadians, like you said, but they said you wanted to see you! I think they were quite insulted.”

Corentin groaned once more, “Didn’t you mention I was unwell?”

“’Course, I told ‘em you had a hangover – but they weren’t having any of it. That shiny-headed fellow’s a real hardarse.”

The Captain groaned for a third time, unable to take all this information with such a raging headache, “Idiot! You actually said I was hungover? And who is this bald man?”

“Eh? I don’t actually know, he never did introduce himself…the worried looking bloke was that Klar-something fellow, I got that much.”

“Klargus, you mean? The Duke of Suno?”

“Er, sounds about right.” Fechin shrugged helplessly, “They weren’t too happy to see me, like I said – they wanted to see you.”

“No-one’s ever happy to see you, Fechin,” Corentin pointed out,

“Most people’d rather see me than Roran.”

“Only ‘cause you probably won’t kill them, you’re still a whole lot uglier than the black-hearted bastard.” He grabbed a handful of the furs, and used them to try and dry his hair off, “So, did the Swadians mention when they wanted to see me?”

“Dunno, can’t remember if they did.”

“Brilliant bloody messenger you make,” the Captain growled, “I’d be better off using that axe of yours to chop off your head. Then I could repaint our banner with your blood.”

Fechin grinned easily, “You’re the boss.”

“Oh, bugger off,” Corentin said angrily, “I can’t deal with you when I feel like this, annoying bastard…”

Obliging his Captain, Fechin ducked out of the tent and left him to his grumblings.

 

[Arch]

I like it! I would like to know more about the characters though. Of course it's only the beginning though. Write more soon! 

 

[RalliX]

I actually enjoyed reading it, despite my reluctance to look at the thread. (I thought the name implied some sort of township RP.)

 

[The Elusive Mr. Hunt]

Thanks guys, bit busy this week, but should be able to write something at the weekend (I hope).

I actually enjoyed reading it, despite my reluctance to look at the thread. (I thought the name implied some sort of township RP.)

hehe, that does sound a little dull...

 

[The Elusive Mr. Hunt]

Sitting by a camp fire, Fechin watched as the Bríghan camp slowly awoke. Out of the tent next to his own, an occupant stumbled uncertainly out. He looked to be in his early thirties, with a heavy, jowly face, but already his blond hair was receding, and a growing bald patch exposed the pale skin of his skull.

Fechin called out, “Garrett,”

The man turned, and blearily spotted the lieutenant’s short squat form by the fire, “Fechin,” he responded, then growled, “Glad to see you look so perky this morning,”

He grinned in reply, “You shouldn’t drink so much if you feel like this in the morning!” he chided cheerily, knowing full well how much it would annoy the man – he hated being reminded of his own weakness. Sure enough, he rose to the bait,

“**** you, Fechin.” He said, then added sarcastically, “I’m a healer, remember? I know how much I can drink.”

The lieutenant didn’t answer, he just grinned even wider. Garrett was, as he had said, the company’s healer – or at least, what passed for one. He’d mainly gained the job by virtue of being the cleverest man in the Free Company. And he’d earned that honorific by being one of the only men in the company who could read or write. His father, before Brígh’s destruction at the hands of the Nordic King Eirik, had been a wealthy merchant, and was thus able to afford a decent education for his son. However, the premature ending of his education, with the demise of most of his tutors under Nordic axes, meant that his grasp of medicine had several inopportune gaps. But, having no one better educated, the company made use of his medicinal talents, meagre as they were.

The healer sat down on a log opposite Fechin, with the fire in-between them. He gestured at a bubbling pot that hung above the fire, “Enough for an old companion?”

He nodded, “Chicken broth. With some beans.” He picked up a battered kettle helmet that sat beside him, and spooned some of the broth into it. Garrett glanced dubiously at it as Fechin handed it over. In truth it was little more than vaguely-chicken flavoured boiling water with a few sad looking beans thrown in. As the healer raised the helmet-***-bowl to his lips, another figure shambled over to the fire,

“You ain’t gonna actually drink that?” boomed a deep voice, in amazement,

Lowering the helmet, Garrett looked up at his questioner. He was a man worthy of his loud voice. His brown hair was long and thick; his brown beard tangled and matted. Standing a head taller than most men, with muscles like an ox, he made a frightening figure. His chest was bare, exposing the intricate patterns of tribal tattoos that webbed his arms and torso. Fechin scowled at him, “And what’s that supposed to mean, Aonghus?”

“It means you can’t cook for ****.”

With a face like thunder, Fechin turned away from the huge tattooed warrior, and faced Garrett,

“Well? You aren’t gonna listen to the idiot, are you?” When the healer didn’t respond, his eyes narrowed into angry slits, “All Aonghus knows about is smashing heads in! You aren’t going to actually listen to his opinions on food, are you? He probably eats his enemies!” Garrett noted with amusement that the lieutenant was genuinely angry. His cooking was the one thing he refused to be needled on. He told everyone who’d listen how his sweet old grandma had taught him to cook in the traditional style of the tribesmen who’d founded Brígh long ago. Garrett wasn’t inclined to wholly believe this tale, as he’d also heard that Fechin’s grandma had personally slain two of Eirik’s huscarls when the Nordic King had broken into the city, before she was impaled by a thrown javelin. For him the second tale didn’t really seem to conjure up the picture of the kindly old woman dotting on a cooking pot that Fechin seemed to describe her as.

With Aonghus grinning at the annoyance he’d caused, and Fechin glaring at him, Garrett took a small sip of the broth – and struggled not to grimace.

“It’s…nice,” the healer said timidly, “yeah – nice.”

Fechin leaned back, arms crossed and a smug look on his faith. Glancing at that look, Aonghus shook his shaggy head in wonderment at the man’s pettiness, and wandered off.

Ignoring the big man’s mutterings, Fechin heartily dug into his own helmet-***-bowl of broth, using a hunk of stale bread to soak up the thin liquid before biting chunks out of it. The yellow-coloured liquid dribbled into his beard as he looked up to see Garrett sitting with the broth on his lap, not having touched it since his first tentative sip, “What’s wrong?” he asked through a mouthful of half-chewed bread,

“Er, nothing. I think it’s just my stomach playing up after…well.”

Fechin grinned, his almost perennial good mood now restored, “What did I tell you!” he looked over Garrett’s shoulder, and saw the Captain returning from the Swadian camp, “Hold on a moment,” he told the healer, and leapt up from his seat. Corentin’s tall wiry form strode towards him. The Captain was dressed in his usual garb for when there was no fighting - a plain white tunic over leggings and boots. His long brown hair hung loose and his beard was thick and plaited at the chin,

“Well?” Fechin asked impatiently as Corentin seemed about to stride right past him without uttering a word, “how did it go?”

This tactic was a favourite of the Captain’s; forcing subordinates to enquire of him rather than telling them freely was one of the few ways he showed his superiority over the rest of the Bríghans.

“It went…” Corentin began, and then paused – as if he had not really considered how it had gone at all yet, “yes, it went fine. Your friend, shiny-head? Grainwad, I believe he is called – Viscount Henry Grainwad, in fact. Well, he isn’t a great fan of me, us, now I’m afraid.” The tall Captain smiled wanly,

“Why?” Fechin asked, a look of guilt appearing in his eyes, “It wasn’t something I said, was it?”

Corentin grinned at the panic writ clear on his lieutenant’s face, “No, Fechin. It wasn’t you. No, he was slightly put out when I told him King Harlaus had commanded I have a place on all of their most innermost councils. Because, in the King’s words, I am a Commander of some eminence, and my position as commander of mine own contingent places me amongst the highest ranked men in the Army. The good Lord Shiny-head did not take this well, I feel.”

Fechin gaped at his Captain, “Harlaus commanded that?”

“Indeed. I believe Grainwad has pressured Lord Klargus into sending the King a messenger in order to confirm he ordered such a thing, his official seal on my orders not being good enough, it appears. He described with…quite some relish, what would happen if he found I’ve been playing him, them, rather, for fools.”

Fechin scratched his head, a look of confusion on his dirty face, “Err…why did Greybeard want you on this council thing again?”

“My dear Fechin,” Corentin began, laying a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder, “The men of the Vale of Suno are possibly the most arrogant men in this whole misbegotten land. They see this vale as the cradle of all Calradian civilisation. To them, King Harlaus and his ancestors are little more than another line of barbarian chieftains; ruling over them and aping their fine ways. So the King, not trusting his arrogant vassals, wants a man on their council he can trust – someone who can tell him just what they are planning.”

“But,” Fechin asked hesitantly, “why would he pick you?”

“Because my loyalty is assured.” Corentin asserted, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes,

“It is?”

“Of course it is! He’s paying me, isn’t he?”

“Oh, er, right.”

Corentin clapped him on the shoulder, “Good man!” he peered over Fechin’s shoulder, spotting the steaming pot, “Breakfast?”  He asked,

Fechin nodded eagerly, “My grandma’s special broth. You want some?”

The Captain’s eyes had widened slightly when he realised the food had been cooked by the lieutenant himself, “Um, no, thanks…there was bread and water at the meeting,” he explained lamely, and then excused himself; explaining that he had to inform Harlaus of how the Sunoans had accepted his orders.

Fechin watched Corentin duck into his tent and out of view, shrugged, and then settled himself back down by the fire. 

***

The assembled lords stood in silence for a long time after the Mercenary Captain had left the tent.

“We have to include that, that…mercenary in our councils, do we?” the Count of Ryibelet, Lord Stamar, spat, “It’s an outrage!”

Grainwad shushed him, knowing full well that several of the company gathered in the tent were more than happy to inform King Harlaus of all the Sunoan lords said, thought or did. Chief amongst those was Lord Mirchaud, the Duke of Dhirim – his dislike for the over-haughty Sunoans was well known throughout the Kingdom, and he often took a malicious pleasure in thwarting any of the Vale’s plans or desires. He stood now next to Duke Klargus with his strong arms folded across his chest, his mouth hidden by the fashionable brown moustache and goatee he wore, and a slight look of amusement in his soft brown eyes.

“Personally,” Lord Ryis began, “I see no issue with this. The man is obviously a competent commander, or our wise Lord King would never have appointed him. More to the point, we have no say in this matter.” He stressed the importance of his last few words by jabbing his finger emphatically as he said each word, “Therefore I suggest we close this meeting now; as if we plan to discuss any other matters to do with how we conduct this campaign, we are contravening the King’s direct orders.”

Lord Ryis’ words had surprised no one. As the Viscount of Derchios, he was a loyal friend and ally of Lord Mirchaud, and likely to either back him up, or act as his mouthpiece, at councils such as these. They even looked similar; both sporting the fashionable goatee and moustache, and both with their short hair oiled forwards onto their foreheads. Ryis, though, was a fair bit shorter and stockier than the lanky Duke of Dhirim.

“Of course,” Lord Grainwad said carefully, “We would not wish to go against the King’s orders, but I see no harm in discussing this…development.” Though the Viscount’s words were addressed to Ryis, it was Lord Mirchaud who he was looking at when he spoke them,

“Discuss?” asked the thin reedy voice of Count Deglan of Vyincourd Castle, “What on earth could there be to discuss? As my good Lord Ryis has already mentioned, these are Royal orders. Not suggestions. Orders.” Though the broken-veins of his face spoke of a heavy drinker, Lord Deglan’s manner was more similar to that of a pedantic clerk than a drunkard, “As there is nothing to discuss on this matter, and as a member of this council, Captain Corentin, is not present; I view this meeting as over – and thus I shall be leaving.” With those final words, the moustachio’d Count strode out of the tent and left them. But not, Grainwad noted wryly, before he’d shot a confirming glance at Mirchaud. The Duke may have stayed mostly silent at this meeting, but the bald Viscount knew who was really behind the words of Ryis and Deglan. There were others, too, who might speak for Lord Mirchaud if told to do so. Lord Despin, the Baron of Nemeja, was as staunch an ally as Deglan was. And Lord Delinard too, a Baron owning fiefs at Ushkuru and Yaragar, was Mirchaud’s man through and through. Grainwad was snapped out of his musings when he heard Mirchaud finally speak,

“I believe gentlemen,” he started, his deep voice sounding faintly sarcastic, “that the meeting should now be adjourned. It has been, as always, a pleasure.” He grasped the arm of Lord Klargus, his equal, nodded his head to the other lords and then left the tent; the lords Delinard, Ryis and Despin trailing after him like hounds.

“Would you like,” Lord Meltor, the Baron of Ruluns said, speaking first after the Pro-Harlaus party’s departure, “to join me for a light repast?” the ginger-haired lord grinned slightly, hinting his true meaning; a meeting away from the prying ears of the camp,

“That would be lovely, I’m sure,” Klargus replied, wiping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief, “but could it be somewhere cool? The unnatural heat of this summer is unbearable at midday.”

“I believe there is a small copse not far out of the camp. Furthermore, I believe one can see the castle from its edge…”

“Excellent!” Klargus cried, “We shall re-convene at this copse in half an hour?”

The other three Sunoans nodded their agreement, and left Klargus’ tent.

“Obstinate buggers Mirchaud and his gang are, eh?” Meltor said to Grainwad as soon as they were back out in the sunlight,

“Yes,” Grainwad replied softly, “But let us not talk of this here, it can wait the half-hour, no?”

Meltor coloured slightly, though his skin didn’t quite match the fiery ginger of his bushy moustache, “Of course, Viscount. ’til then.”

Lord Grainwad nodded, and the two Swadians went their separate ways.

 

[yulgar]

I'm mad at you!  I thought it was an RP so I started reading a little and then got sucked into the story.  Good job mate!  A few menial spelling errors in the second publication, but don't we all have those?

 

[The Elusive Mr. Hunt]

Hehe. And what are the spelling mistakes? I refuse to take the blame for any of the names/places from the game that I spelt wrong - they shouldnt be so bloody complicated!

 

[Kazzan]

Thanks, it was a nice read! Hope you continue...

 

[yulgar]

I don't even remember now.  I'd have to reread it.

Edit:  Civilization, which you spelled civilisation, was one of them... I can't find the other thing.

 

[Arch]

Yeah, I thought it was an rp the first time I saw it too... good work again! I don't mind spelling mistakes in large posts too often though, I usually only see them in the small ones. I wonder what will happen  now... not much of a plot has been rolled out yet so it could go just about everywhere right now. Can't wait to read some more!

 

[The Elusive Mr. Hunt]

I don't even remember now.  I'd have to reread it.

Edit:  Civilization, which you spelled civilisation, was one of them... I can't find the other thing.

Ah yes. I often ruthlessly purge "z"s from my posts in bouts of anti-Americanism

Yeah, I thought it was an rp the first time I saw it too... good work again! I don't mind spelling mistakes in large posts too often though, I usually only see them in the small ones. I wonder what will happen  now... not much of a plot has been rolled out yet so it could go just about everywhere right now. Can't wait to read some more!

I have a rough plan for the plot, not sure when I'm going to start the story moving along it properly yet.

 

[Arch]

Yeah, I thought it was an rp the first time I saw it too... good work again! I don't mind spelling mistakes in large posts too often though, I usually only see them in the small ones. I wonder what will happen  now... not much of a plot has been rolled out yet so it could go just about everywhere right now. Can't wait to read some more!

I have a rough plan for the plot, not sure when I'm going to start the story moving along it properly yet.

Take your time, if you rush, your story will turn out like crap. If I were you, I'd take another one or two weeks to finish off what your doing now then move on. It's important to get a good base out before you start.