Chapter 3: An interlude
When word came it came by raven when the moon was at its height and the night darkest. Superstitious men called it the witching hour, when creatures great and small sped across the sky, when a demon could steal the hearts of men, where a wight could tear aware your very soul. Men huddled around camp fires, hands upturned to the flames, small groups of comfort and safety against the enormity of the night.
Uthor did not care for such thoughts. He was not a pious man or a man given to believing the ghost stories that soldiers so liked to frighten each other with. No, the Lord of Grey Glens focused on more important matters. Like the great keep that loomed over him.
“We do not have the men to storm it.”
The table was lined up once again, this time focused on Gulltown and Grafton Keep. The Fishmonger's men still held it and they were dug in deep like the rats they were. Uthor doubted he had the men to take the castle in open battle... and even if he could he doubted he could hold it. A long drawn out siege was the only option.
“We must maintain our lines gentlemen. We must teach the Fishmonger that he cannot ride against us and ravage the levies without paying the price. We cannot take the whole province; the walls are too thick and our men too few. But we will make him remember. As he and his scum march south let them march with the knowledge that their keep is ours. That we will feast in his hall and piss on his chair. He will learn of our fury through the wailing of his women and the lamentations of his men. But for that to happen we must maintain our lines.”
There were nods from around the table, grim stares. Uthor knew men wished to be at their farms and by their hearths. He knew that each day resentment grew as they fought a war not of their choosing. But such resentment could be managed and a blow must be struck against the Graftons for their decision to follow the Mad King.
“M'lord! M'lord!”
“What is it now?”
A messenger had come running into his tent. Uthor had decided he disliked messengers, especially those who came running at inopportune moments. It was such a messenger who had told him of this war that so consumed the land, the same war that had dragged him from his hall and brought him to this place. The entire holding smelt of fish, the cloying, rancid smell of rotting fish and the sea settling over everything. He wanted this siege done so he could he done, could get away from here. And now a messenger came to give him tidings.
“Your son M'Lord.”
“Arbury, yes. What of him.”
Something cold and hard gripped Uthor's stomach. His mouth was dry, his breath quick. No words had been spoken but a feeling of inescapable dread fell over him. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and could feel his hand start to clench and unclench.
“He has been kidnapped M'Lord.”
A dull silence fell on the group. There were no gasps, no shouts, no screams. Just a long silence that spoke a thousand words.
“How.”
Uthor kept his voice under control... just. It took every piece of his will not to shout the words, to scream his defiance to the Gods.
“He was hunting M'Lord when bandits set upon him and his party. They slew the retainers and took your son. They wish to ransom him to you.”
“Ransom him?”
“For 25 pieces of gold.”
“25 pieces of gold?”
The thought was unspoken. 25 pieces of gold was almost half the treasury of the Grey Glens. But what price would you put on the life of your son?
“There will be no ransom.”
Now there were gasps. Would Uthor really give up his first and only son to the hands of fate? He turned to the group.
“I do this for the realm. Not just for the money... although we can ill afford to hand over so much of our treasury to brigands. But what message do we send if we bend our knee to these vagabonds and ruffians? If we bend over for blackguards and chances across the land?”
He paused, the hand clenching but his eyes hard.
“We must stop this now. This war threatens the very ties that bind us together, the tie of liege and vassal, of king and kingdom. All is being rewritten but we cannot allow chaos to reign. We cannot allow what once united us to be ripped asunder. Lords must still reign over their lands and the son of a lord must be allowed to hunt in peace. This war has only just begun and already these scum think they can act with impunity. We need to strike back.”
“Give me your army M'Lord. I will scour the woods for these traitors and bring you their rotting heads.”
“No Master-at-arms. I will not abandon Grafton Keep now it is at my mercy. This war must be won and I cannot place my son's life above the defence of the realm. If this war drags on then fools like these will always appear. Deserters and bandits will swell their ranks till soon a man cannot walk from his chamber to the pisspot without a man demanding coin from him. No, this war must be won.”
Another pause.
“There is no grand strategy here gentlemen. We simply need to maintain the lines and wait for starvation to draw the defenders out. So Master-at-arms, you will have your chance to set the world to rights. Take a dozen men and find these scum. Bring me back my son.”
“And the ruffians M'Lord?”
“Do things to them that would make the bravest of men gag. Let all men know that to come against the Lord of the Grey Glens means to sacrifice your head for my throne of skulls. Plant a sign so all men may know that here lie the fools who dared to cross Uthor of the Grey Glen. Make it so that women will sing their lament, so men will rue their folly, so children will weep for lost fathers, mothers for lost sons, wives for lost husbands. I want the very thought of attacking me or my family to turn one's bowels to water and the taste in one's mouth to ashes. I want history to tell the story to all who will listen that to cross me is to die... and to die badly. Write their fates with blood in the sky to the extent the very Gods will feel pity for them. In a 1,000 years when people tell stories of the War of the Usurper I want this tale to be the one they tell their children to frighten them into obedience. Make them rue the day that their bastard fathers ever laid eyes on their whore mothers. Make them pay my friend. Make them pay with everything they have.”
“I shall M'Lord. By all that's holy I shall.”
“There is no holiness in this dear Sir. There is only darkness.”
“When all is darkest M'Lord, we stand true.”
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Nestor sat behind the tree, waiting for the wind to turn in the pale night. It was dark, as dark as he had ever known it but a fire in the middle of the clearing ahead gave him all the vision he needed. His grizzled face told of a life spent in these woods, hunting for game be it man or beast. The Vale may be famous for its crops, for wheat, corn, and barley or even those blasted pumpkins that people so admired but not all had given up the art of hunting. It was dangerous work. Wolves and bears still roamed the woods and even a boar could be deadly if one was foolish or unlucky. And that was to say nothing of the Mountain Tribes. They rarely ventured into the Glens, preferring to stay in their mountain hovels, picking off lone wanderers with their stone axes and misshapen arrows but one could never be too careful. They may not risk open confrontation with the levies of the Vale but with the levies far away they might be growing bold. It was only two months past that Nestor had been forced to put an arrow in the throat of one, all wild eyes and tattered rags, who had reared up from behind a tree.
But when there was danger there was opportunity and Nestor had found his place in the world. He had hunted in these lands for 40 years, ever since his father had given him a bow and sent him on his way, and now there were none who could match him. In the outside world he may be a lowly peasant... a respected one aye, but a peasant none the less... but in these woods he was king. And so it was no surprise that when news that Little Lord Arbury had been kidnapped the high and mighty would come to him. Now a fat purse of coin sat waiting for him... if he could just bring the Little Lord back.
He was not alone of course. A Lord would not trust the fate of his only son to just one man, however talented. Nestor did not consider it an insult. He wouldn't have trusted himself on his own. He had no idea how many brigands there were, who they were or how prepared they were. A dozen men were scattered in the woods, good men (in a way...), tough men, men to keep close in a fight, woodsmen. A diverse bunch. The pretty archer Bailon, all blond hair and good lucks, a master with the ladies and a fool with his coin but also able to hit a swallow in flight at 100 paces. If he hadn't been keeping silent Nestor would have chuckled at a conversation when he first met Bailon. Bailon had boasted that he could shoot the balls off a knat. Olaf had enquired in his usual way as to whether gnats had balls. Bailon had smiled, cocked his head and answered with a straight face.
“Not when I'm around.”
It was a good memory. Olaf was here too, the hulking Northman crouching to his left some 30 yards up. No-one ever asked why Olaf had left the North but most were glad he had. Mountain men had hit a village some 4 years ago, a small band eager for plunder, blood and flesh. They would have had it too if Olaf had not been visiting at the time. He had charged the savages, an axe in each hand like some mythical hero of the bard's tales, splattered red with the lifeblood of the barbarians before they fell away. A deadly man but a good one, hard working and dedicated. He answered the call because with the war he did not have the men to collect the harvest. Nestor knew Olaf was never happier then when on his farm, his wife and children around him... but he would not walk away from a task when given.
He let the memories fade away and risked a glance past the tree to the camp in the clearing. Nestor would never turn down easy money but this had been almost too simple. The trail the men had left looked like a herd of cattle had descended through the woods to one such as he and there had been no subtly, no subterfuge. Now they came across a camp, open and exposed, with a fire burning bright into the sky and no guards. At first Nestor had thought it too simple, too easy. There was no way any group with such a lack of talent would have dared to have taken the Lord's son. So he had waited, had been cautious, had checked and double checked for a second trail, for an ambush... for anything. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. And his gut didn't think anything was wrong.
Nestor trusted his gut. You had too after all these years. It was a product of his experience, his knowledge, his caution and his intuition, all rolled up and put together. Some people tried to claim it as luck but Nestor would simply smile and nod. Let them think him lucky. It was a taste in the wind, a sound in the undergrowth. Afterwards Nestor could put things together, logically assemble what had happened. The smell was blood from a recent kill, so faint it was almost gone, the sound the crack of a twig under the wolf's paw... but at the time it was his gut that helped him. It was his gut that had told him to draw his knife a moment before a rampaging boar bust through the undergrowth and his gut that had told him to bring his bow on the long walk to Widow Mary's. Nestor liked Widow Mary. As his age increased he found he went to whores less for their body and more for their company... and whores were rarely good company. So he had taken to visiting Widow Mary in her cottage. A man could get a good stew there, a warm glass of beer and some good conversation. Nestor had long considered marrying Mary. With the war, he just might.
Nestor could make out the Little Lord. He was tied to a tree, a little way from the camp. Fools. One should have stayed with him the whole time. There were seven men there, none of any real note. He had tracked seven men and seven men were in the camp. Perfect. He could hear the conversation now, pitiful boasts from pitiful men of what they would do with the gold. They wouldn't live to know. Nestor's face hardened as one of them approached the Little Lord, an ugly man with a hooked nose.
“No message from your father yet boy.”
Nestor could see a swelling around the boys right eye, from a blow no doubt, and there had clearly been tears on his cheeks. But when he spoke his voice was clear, his eyes hard, his tone unbroken.
“You will get a message from my father, scum. A steel message right through the gut.”
Hook-nose snarled and came closer, staring directly into Arbury's eyes, the boy matching his gaze even as the brigand drew a knife.
“You're a defiant brat aren't ya? How defiant you going to be when I cut off an ear and send it to your father?”
“Leave him.”
Another man called from across the clearing, glancing to the pair. The only notable feature was a massive wart on his chin, red and inflamed, begging to be lanced. Hook-nose turned back to Wart-face.
“It's been a week and no word. If we cut his ear off his father will bloody pay attention.”
“Too right he bloody will. He'll hunt us down like dogs. Have patience. The Lord is away with the war right now... we'll have his answer shortly.”
How right you are thought Nestor.
“What, the Lord of Grey Glens? I'm not that bloody impressed. Bastard's just a minor lord, a prancing fool.”
“Aye, a minor lord. He's distracted by this bloody war but if you hurt his son he can walk away from it. Minor lord or know he has a thousand banner men who can hunt us down.”
“A pox on them. We can slip away in the confusion.”
“You want to slip away with 25 pieces of gold in your pocket and a thousand men chasing us with a reward on our heads? Where will we run? To the North where your balls with freeze off and a wildling sticks a spear in your guts? To the East or South where war rages? We'll as likely be hung as deserters. No, we take our gold, let the boy go and charter a ship. With his lad safe the Lord won't bother closing the port. Gulltown might be at war but there's fishing villages all up the coast. Get a boat and sail out. But we hurt the lad and we won't find a single boat that doesn't have a damn Glen's soldier standing guard over it.”
The most sensible thing you've said though Nestor. Hook-nose was walking towards Wart-face now and Nestor counted the steps. This farce needed to end... and he needed his dinner. Seven, eight, nine... that would do. He lightly cupped his hands to his mouth and whistled, the mating call of the Vale falcon. An answering call came back. None hint of alarm from the camp.
Right until the moment Olaf reared up within metres of Wart-face.
“Who the bloody 'ell are y...”
Wart-face didn't get to finish as Olaf hurled one of his hand axes, the weapon tumbling in the air till the blade came crunching down onto Wart-face's chest, punching the man from his feet. Instantly the camp was chaos, the men scrabbling for weapons even as all around the clearing the hunters reared up, bows in hand and targets in sight. Arrows flashed through the air as the men fell. Nestor himself sought out Hook-nose, watching the man turn to face Arbury before Nestor's arrow took him in the eye and he pitched forward, dead before he knew it. The entire massacre took but moments until as quickly as it had started a silence fell like a shroud, punctured only by the groans of the three men merely wounded and the piteous weeps of one, on his knees before Olaf, desperately pleading that he was just a farmer, that he had not killed anyone, that he had just gone along with the plan but had no real part in it. Olaf patted him on the head and drew back his remaining axe.
“He's mine.”
Nestor cursed under his breath. He had said that the men with him were good men. There was one exception. Agmar was a knifeman, a creature of low character and lesser morals. He was no woodsman, Nestor knew that, and from what he had heard he made his usual living in the back allies and taverns of cities and towns all across the Vale. A knife in the back here, a slit throat there... and when called for, a knowledge and love of torture. Nestor could think of only one reason why he would have been hired. To send a message to all those who went against Lord Tollett. The boy on the ground couldn't be more than 17 and Nestor could see the stain on his breaches and the ground from where he'd pissed himself. Nestor had no need to see Agmar turn the man into a lump of quivering, screaming flesh and so he turned his attention to the Little Lord. The boy was quiet, his mouth slightly open but his eyes were alert as Nestor cut him free.
“T...t...t...thank you good sir.”
“Are you well M'Lord. You have been through a lot.”
“Yes... yes... yes... I am fine. Could I ask a favour of you?”
Nestor offered his hand and the Little Lord took it, pulling himself to his feet.
“Yes, M'Lord.”
“Can I borrow your knife?”
“Em, yes M'Lord. What for?”
Nestor offered the hunting knife to Arbury, mystified at the request as the Little Lord took it without response.. The boy went to Hook-nose's body, rolling him over, so the one dead eye stared into the sun. Nestor watched as the Little Lord sat on Hook-nose's chest and drew the knife across the dead man's forehead. It took a moment for Nestor to work out what the boy was doing but soon he could see the diagonal lines of House Tollett's emblem carved into the would-be kidnappers head. His task finished the Little Lord stood , his hand shaking slightly but the eyes still strong.
“Do this to all the bodies. Even...”
He paused as a shrill scream split the air, Arbury using his knife to make sure that the poor boy would not spend the last few moments... although Nestor shuddered at the thought it could be hours... with a man's body.
“...Even that one. When they are displayed I want there to be no doubt on the cost of opposing House Tollett.”
“It will be so M'Lord. If I may say sir, you have been very brave.”
Arbury smiled and nodded...
“Thank you. I... I...I”
Nestor immediately saw tears fill his already puffy eyes. The knife dropped from a nerveless hand to land quietly on the bloodstained ground.
“I just want to go home.”
The Lord was crying and before he knew it Nestor had him in his arms, the boy hugging him back fiercely, feeling great sobs wrack his little body. Nestor pulled him close, held him tight.
“Just take me home. Please, just take me home.”
“You're safe now. You're safe.”
Nestor had only had one child he'd ever known about. Years ago. A small boy who had been taken from him by a fever he could do nothing to stop. He'd watched the boy die day by day until finally he was gone. Nestor had cried then, had cried harder than he'd ever cried before and promised himself that he would never again risk such pain. Never again would he put so much of himself into one person.
But for this moment, this single moment in time, as the Little Lord wept in his arms Nestor knew that if it was in his power no-one would ever threaten him again.
For when all was darkest, he had come for the boy.
OOC: I'd quite like people's thoughts on this. As I've mentioned this is my first AAR and any feedback would be great.
In the great scheme of the game what we have is a minor event that is dealt with in a couple of days. Yet I've put a pretty hefty amount of work into the above post.
Is this a good move? Do people enjoy following these minor, character driven pieces (I intend for several of the named characters above to return at various points) or do they prefer wider, more sweeping updates that focus on the bigger picture? When you read this update did you enjoy it or were you disappointed that I didn't do something along the lines of "The siege was nearly broken when Uthor was informed that poachers had taken his son and demanded a ransom. Uthor gave them all that they deserved... a slow painful death as his son was rescued." and then went back to focusing on the War itself?
As above, all feedback appreciated.
