The First Day
When Brek left the Monarch's Royal Guard, many people released long-awaited sighs of relief. Though few were pleased at the cause of Brek's desertion, all realized the benefit of the discontinuation of his future in the Guard. For Brek had been a malicious soldier, unimpeachable in his execution of orders, but vicious and cruel in every other way. A certain look in his eye alarmed his superior officers. While they regretted the occurrence that had caused Brek to flee, the Commander's wounds would heal, and Brek would no longer have any chance of promotion in the royal service. All concerned could now relax their vigilance, as the internal threat had disappeared into the night.
But they had freed their worry too soon, for Brek had not left in fear of punishment for his attack on the Commander, but instead, only to prepare an army of his own—a cold-hearted, blood-thirsty group comprised of murderers, thieves, and men without conscience. Within three years of his departure from the Guard, his army was larger than the service he had left, and Brek, self-proclaimed Warlord, began a long trek to the Citadel with the intent of imposing himself on the throne.
The winter of Brek's seventh year as Warlord was especially bitter. Isolated from his camp by the deep snows still blocking the foothills of the southern mountain ranges and with supplies dangerously low, Brek ordered the men in his select band to sack the village he had just located slightly inside the western border.
His second in command, a man extradited from a neighboring nation for acts punishable by death anywhere else in the world, called for Brek's attention a few miles outside of the town. "What are our limits?" he asked. "Just supplies?"
"No limits," said Brek.
"And women?" asked the officer. He had been privately jealous of the few men at the main camp who had had the good fortune to successfully carry off attractive females from previous plunders. He ached to join their number.
"No limits," said Brek. "Tell the men." The man hurriedly spurred his horse to face the troops and issued commands. Strange glints appeared in the men's eyes as they pictured the imminent spoils. When Brek lifted his arm in the signal to proceed the response was quick and eager. The trials of the winter were giving way to the benefits of spring.
At the highland immediately outside the town the troops paused. Brek held the position until dawn had broken. As the promise of a new day rose in the east the army descended down the western hillside. The men studied the town during their descent, discerning the layout and determining their tactics. But only one pair of sharp eyes caught a flash of movement behind the farthest cottage.
The attack on the village was swift. The men were familiar with the methods. Enter, search, steal, burn. Any village men found were forced at knife-point to a guarded location. Once all had been looted the soldiers looked for more tempting quarry—women.
They met with difficulty. The town was virtually empty. The search became frantic but the men could not find a single woman of a desirable age. So they were disturbed when a green soldier, a recent recruit, rushed behind a building and returned with an attractive, young female over his shoulder. Glances were cast, oaths muttered, threats made. But an unspoken code dictated behavior and forbade interfering with the glory of the plunder. Stealing another's property was another matter. They need only bide their time.
Once the soldiers abandoned their pursuits the call came to gather in the town square. A small group of village men cowered in a guarded corner under the bright blue sky. As the soldiers drew near to watch the scene they had come to expect, the only sound was the cheerful birdsong coming from the trees. They formed a circle around the prisoners, jostling each other for a better view. Someone pushed the new recruit, the woman still over his shoulder, to the front. "Watch this," a voice said loudly, "and know why Lord Brek is great."
Suddenly a hushed awe fell over the audience. The birds halted their song. The only sound was that of Brek's step against the cobblestones of the street. He approached the prisoners, signaled for the guards to step down. "Is the village leader here?" he called jovially, his angular face carefully molded into an avuncular smile. A man squeezed out of the crowd. "Is it you?" asked Brek, his tone one of calculated cheer.
The man nodded. "I am the leader of this village."
"It is a very fine village," said Brek, continuing with his friendly tone but caressing the hilt of blade.
"We have worked very hard," said the man.
"You have," said Brek, agreeing amicably while now sliding the blade through his hands. "Your people have made many pretty things."
The man's jaw quavered but he drew on reserves of courage that had never before failed him. "You are welcome to whatever pleases you, my Lord," he said gallantly, bowing deeply. "We live to serve."
He rose, hoping his flattery had appeased the vicious Warlord. It had not. "Do you mock me?" growled Brek, dropping his friendly affectations.
"No sir, no sir," fumbled the man. "Really, take whatever you like, anything."
"All right, then," said Brek, and slit the man's throat.
Someone screamed.
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