In 2816, the kingdom of Iradar was fractured
by the outbreak of civil war. Two
opposing Dukes; Reginald Fortrerre of Toure and Josse of Sanche, vied for the
throne. In the five years that followed, one-by-one,
the rebellious Dukes fell to the power of the Rendor crown. Historians labeled the seven leaders of the rebellion
the Treacherous Seven, and history records the
struggle as the Succession Wars.
Duke Reginald Fortrerre stood on the battlements of his keep. Before him lay the mottled, velvety blackness that was the sleeping city of Toure, his Ducal seat. Far in the distance, beyond the black city, the surrounding hills were dotted with tiny points of flickering light. It was growing cooler, and the besieging army lit fires now, far out of range of the archers on the city walls.
It didn’t matter how far they camped, the defenders had long ago been ordered to conserve their arrows for the defense of the walls. Probing, cautious attempts to breach the wall were thrown back on what seemed to be a weekly basis. While the defending soldiers celebrated such victories, the Duke himself knew that the attacks were only designed to test the will and strength of the city’s defense at various points. Many times, the attackers were thrown back at the last moment. The Duke knew there was little hope they would survive the first major concerted attack. There were simply too few men inside the city.
Indeed, there were too few people inside the city. The women and children had fled into the hills with the old and infirm only two days before the first vanguard of the royal army had arrived on the east road. With the exception of a few scattered wives who refused to leave their husbands, the city was manned only by those who could bear arms in its defense.
Of course, his wife, Mariette, was one of those women who remained. It was her duty, after all. She would stay by his side to the bitter end that they all knew would come sooner or later. That end might be delayed if only the Duke’s brother, the Count of Guille, would arrive with a relief force from Duke Josse of Sanche. Reginald had sent his brother asking for military aid over a month ago.
Would Josse answer the call? It looked doubtful. Josse and Reginald were rival claimants to the throne of Iradar, two of seven. But the letter he had sent Josse contained an impassioned plea for unity against the overwhelming size and resources of the House Rendor, who now occupied the throne. While not implicitly stating he would throw his support behind Josse, he did imply that he would be greatly indebted to him.
Would that be enough? Reginald knew Josse was an honorable man, espoused to his sense of duty and chivalry. But he was also a Duke, and with that title came all the baggage- the back-dealing, back-stabbing, and political maneuvering. On one hand, he could let Reginald be crushed by the Royal Army and do away with one rival. On another, he could recognize that each time a contender to the throne was eliminated, the royal position became stronger by default.
Reginald drew in a deep breath of air. Very soon, the sun would dawn over the western foothills and another day would arrive. Would this be another day of waiting? Would this be the day he was delivered from defeat? Or would this be the day he was finally and utterly ruined?
He felt soft hands on his shoulders and recognized the soft touch of his wife’s embrace. She wrapped her slender arms about his chest from behind, and held him close, her chin pressing into the softness of his cloak.
He turned and returned the embrace. They said nothing at first, knowing that there was little to say anyway. Rather, they stood there in each other’s arms, relishing the familiarity.
“Good morning, my husband,” she said quietly. “It is early to be awake yet.”
“And it is cold to be outside without a cloak, Mari,” he said, holding her tight and letting his warmth surround her shoulders, “You’ll catch the Winter Fever!”
“Then come back to bed, Regi,” She pleaded. “Let us wait for the morning bell together.”
He smiled, a weary, wistful smile. They had spent little personal time together in the past months. Since the arrival of the royal army, Reginald had been busy with his duties as duke. From before dawn to long after nightfall, he toured the city and the keep, inspecting defenses and trying to keep morale of the men high. In his fatalistic mind, he knew it was all for naught, that the city did not have the strength to combat the force arrayed against it. He felt he would be beaten, dishonored, and at last executed in shame.
But he also knew that Mariette suffered as well. Their marriage had been arranged by parents when they were but teens. Nevertheless, they had grown to love each other very deeply. While he had his duties as Duke to keep his mind from breaking, she had little. Her maids she had sent away with the women and children. Her eldest son had been killed in Bordeau by the King’s orders three years before. Her daughter was the hostage of House Ceurre, who remained loyal to the Rendor Crown. But trough it all, she had steadfastly refused to give in to her grief. She, too, had duties. She visited the women who remained in the keep, keeping their spirits as high as possible. She had become a symbol of strength for the keep’s defenders.
But Reginald knew that what she craved most of all was the love of her husband. And through the despair in his heart, he was unable to give it.
“I must attend to the city, Mari,” he said in a near whisper.
His felt his wife’s face drop. He knew she was hurting, but he also knew she would never let him see it.
“The city needs it’s Duke,” she said, smiling a forced smile, “and it’s next king.”
He clasped her hand in his, kissed it, and left her on the battlements. Brave words, but only a fool believed there was still hope he could secure his claim to the throne.
____
As the sun finally peaked its light over the western foothills, Duke Reginald Fortrerre emerged from his chambers in the regal trappings of his office. The shoulder plates over his chain-mail armor, as always, were polished to a mirror shine. His dark green cloak with the symbol of his house, the two-headed Golden Dragon of Fortrerre, was somewhat worn, but given the shortage of cloth in the city, was far more regal than any worn in Toure. His fine leather gloves, imported from Hebronus in the south, were immaculately clean. His dark beard with hints of gray was neatly trimmed. Only his eyes betrayed him. He could not hide the weariness in them. Luckily, the vast majority of the people in the city did not look so deeply. They saw him as their fearless leader only.
Reginald began his morning tour of the Keep. Everywhere he went, men snapped to attention, puffing their chests in a false show of confidence and pride. At his side walked his Captain, Henre of Weille.
Henre, a tall, thin man in his early fifties with gray hair and a scraggly beard that unsuccessfully tried to cover the large, red scar across his left cheek, carried himself with the air of nobility, even though he was no more than a common soldier by birth. He addressed the Duke respectfully, thought they had known each other for many years.
“My Lord,” he began, “there is a shortage of salt in the city. I’ve ordered men to search the houses of the merchant quarter for personal stores that might have been locked away when the citizens fled, sir, but I fear that we will not find enough to last more than a few weeks at the longest.”
“Do what you must,” the Duke replied seemingly without even considering the issue. “We’ll be running short of more than salt in the next month, I’ll wager.”
“Aye,” Henre replied, “That we will. We managed to stock the larders with wheat and flour in the spring, so we should hold out for the winter with bread, Sir. But the meat- there’s just not enough of it. The Winter Fever outbreak took most of the livestock that was in the city. We had to kill off most of the rest to keep them from spreading it. It will be hard to man the walls with just stale bread in our stomachs, Sir.”
“But there’s little more we can do,” Reginald replied. “Unless the siege is lifted, there will be no supplies of meat in Toure. Now, let us go”-
Their conversation was cut off by the morning bell calling the next shift of men to the walls. No matter how many mornings he woke to the sound, he could never get used to the harsh note.
It wasn’t until he heard the commotion on the courtyard outside the window that he realized something was wrong.
He rushed out of the small antechamber into the main entry-hall of the Ducal residence in the keep. Already, a number of men were standing there with drawn swords. A man, covered in sweat and breathing heavily stood, hands on knees in the middle of the room, trying to catch his breath. When he saw the Duke, he immediately straightened, his face drawn with excitement…or fear.
“My Lord!” He began, tripping over the words in his haste, “The Gate… inside… Mercenaries!”
“Slow down, soldier,” the Duke commanded. “Speak slowly!”
“The gate is breached!” the man stammered at last.
The room erupted into a hustle of action as captains of the city shouted in their confusion and shock. Some called out in despair, some in disbelief.
“Sound the alarm!” Henre finally managed to scream above the din.
Reginald felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach, a sudden fear that all he had strove for was crashing in suddenly. If the royal army and its mercenary soldiers were inside the city, it was nearly done. There weren’t enough men inside the walls to fight them hand-to-hand. His men could hold out long if they were fighting from behind tall, strong walls. But not in the streets, not face to face.
He grabbed the soldier by the shoulder as he ran from the room, nearly dragging the breathless man behind him. In the courtyard outside, men were rushing through the open gate of the Ducal Compound into the keep courtyard proper, in order to join their companies. They stepped through the gate themselves, Henre in tow.
“How did they breach the gate?” he asked, “Tell me as we walk!”
“I-I-don’t know, sir,” the man stammered. “We were about to return to the keep with the shift change, sir, when there was a great shout form the walls. There was fighting inside the gates! There were so many of them so quickly, we didn’t know what was happening. One moment it was quiet, the next moment the gatehouse was filled with Royal Soldiers!”
“How did they get in?” the Duke demanded. He stopped, and brought his face very close to the other man’s. His eyes were livid, all signs of worry or despair seemed to suddenly disappear, and were replaced with a hard, cold fire deep in the black of his pupils. Victory might seem unlikely, but he was at home when he was in command. It was his fury and charisma in battle that had earned him the respect of his peers. Win or lose, live or die, he at least felt that in battle, he was master of his own destiny.
“I believe, sir,” the man stammered, “there may have been treachery involved. They were streaming through an open sally-port on the east side of the gate-house.”
“Henre!” Reginald shouted, “Sound the alarm bell to call the men on the walls back to the keep. Order my guard to assemble outside the main gate of the keep. We’ll need to protect any fleeing men until they are safely inside. We shall serve as rearguard for the retreat. Have birds sent out at once to the other Dukes. Tell them the city has fallen, but the Keep will hold. Tell them we need their support now, or the Rendors will defeat us each one-by one. Go!”
Henre snapped to attention. With a nod of his head, he turned and rushed back inside the keep. In a few moments, the keep bells began to ring wildly, calling for a general retreat to those in the city. Reginald Drew himself up as the men of his guard began to assemble in the courtyard. Other solders began to filter in from the city, most running wildly with a look of abject terror.
In only a few minutes, nearly all thirty of Reginald’s personal guard stood ready for battle. The sounds form the city had grown closer, and the smoke from the gates could be seen even from where they stood at the city’s center.
Finally, Henre arrived with Reginald’s Charger. He indicated the messages had been sent, and took his place with the guard.
“Men!” Reginald shouted as he mounted his horse. “The gate has fallen! There are still many of our fellow fighting men in the city. It will be our place to slow the advance of the enemy, acting as rearguard, until as many men as possible reach the safety of the keep. Keep your formation! Use your pikes. Remember, we won’t be trying to drive them form the city, jut slow their advance! Now, TO THE GATES!”
The men let out a great shout and brandished their pikes on their shields. The Golden Dragon of House Fortrerre shined in the morning sunlight on each and every soldier’s shield. Though Reginald knew their position was dire, he could not help but feel his chest swell with pride. This is what he was born to do.
At a quick, but deliberate pace, the small band marched from the keep. The men of the Duke’s Personal Guard were among the most highly trained soldiers of his army. They were all veterans who had proven both their worth in battle and their loyalty to their duke. They also were grim men who found joy in battle. They marched now in nearly perfect formation, backs straight and eyes forward. If they felt fear, their eyes did not show it beneath the rim of their brass-trimmed helms.
As they made their way toward the gate, they were joined by small groups of the city’s defenders. Some, running toward the keep, took heart at the sight and found their nerve. Others caught up form the keep itself. By the time they caught site of the mass of Royal Soldiers in the main avenue inside the gate, there were nearly two hundred of them.
As soon as the royal soldiers and mercenaries saw the Duke and his banner approach, they let out a great yell, and rushed madly at the Duke’s guard without order. The Duke’s guard positioned themselves in a line that crossed the avenue. Behind them, the men of the city who had joined them readied themselves.
The royal soldiers crashed upon the line of defenders and broke upon the wall of shields and spears. At the center, the Duke himself had dismounted and fought like a man possessed with his great sword. At first, the chaos the enveloped the defenders threatened to break the will of the men of the city who stood behind the Duke’s guard. A few turned and fled again in the face of the overwhelming numbers. But the Duke’s guard held their ground to the man. After a few chaotic minutes, the royal soldiers fell back, stunned by the resolve and skill of the line of defenders.
They regrouped not a hundred feet away and the two groups of men stood eyeing each other across a space littered with the bodies of dead and dying men. Duke Reginald Fortrerre was himself unharmed. He raised his left hand, and without a word, the men began to march backward in an ordered retreat to the keep. He stood in front of his men, facing the enemy, his right arm still stinging from the beating of his sword on the armored bodies of the royal soldiers. He looked first left along his line and then back right. To his utter surprise, the line was complete. Not one of his guard or the men behind them had fallen.
Before them now, he could see the bodies of at least fifteen royal soldiers. Across the open space, he could see the amazement in the eyes of the opposing soldiers. Their numbers were growing, for even as they stood there trying to collect themselves, more men joined them from behind in the direction of the gates. The captain of the enemy forces before him was rushing hurriedly back and forth in front of his men, trying to rally them for another assault. He held his left arm, which was covered with blood from a gash-like wound near the elbow.
But Duke Reginald Fortrerre smiled and laughed aloud. He raised his arms to the opposing captain, showing him that he was unhurt. He then gestured to his own men, showing the opposing captain that they had all survived the mad rush.
The opposing captain was enraged, and shouted wildly to his own men. They let out a great yell, and again charged at the retreating line of the Duke’s men.
Again, the chaos of battle engulfed them. Again, the Duke wielded his great sword before his men like a hero from the battles of old. One man fell before his sword. Then another. Then one more. He was laughing as he fought. The joy of battle was upon him, and he felt the sheer exhilaration that a warrior felt only in the heat of battle.
In a few moments, the royal soldiers again fell back. A great cheer went up, this time from the line of defenders. Reginald turned again, and saw only three gaps in his line, which were already begin filled by men from the city who’s courage was growing in the face of the bravery of the Duke’s Guard.
He knew that it could not last. One more charge, maybe, and the royal captain would bring archers up from outside the city. There could be no doubt that this royal captain expected the defenders to break and flee as soon as they saw the mass of men gathering against them. He had not counted on Reginald’s Guard. They might withstand a barrage of arrows and missiles, but the commoners behind his guard would be slaughtered, for they were poorly armored. Again, he signaled for the men to withdraw.
They rounded a bend in the road and briefly lost sight of the ass of royal soldiers in the street. There were brief scuffle all around them, for in the immediate breaching of the gate, many royal soldiers had rushed madly into the city. Here and there they fought with men of the city in small groups. But they were of little consequence. Further up the road, leading to the keep itself, there were hundreds of city defenders scrambling up the incline toward the keep’s gate. Those were the men who mattered.
With the enemy temporarily out of sight, Reginald thought for a moment. If the enemy was not prepared for a race to the keep, he might just escape with all of his men through the keep gate if they could put enough distance between themselves and the royal soldiers before the enemy rounded the turn in the road. He didn’t consider it long, for he knew that his guard would be critical to the defense of the keep.
“Turn, men!” he shouted, “Double time!”
Like a troop of parade soldiers, his men expertly pivoted in their place and began a jog up the incline. It was no more than a half mile from the bend in the road to the keep gate, but the road gently rose the entire distance, making a double-time march very difficult for battle-weary men in heavy armor.
He hung behind for a moment, his servant at his side holding the reins to his charger. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The lust for battle was on him, and he hesitated. He could stay here, await the enemy, and die a glorious death- one fit for story and song. But who would write it? If he died, the royal scribes would paint his memory as that of a treacherous rebel, not of a loyal Duke, betrayed by his king through the murder of his son. If he died, who would remember his son?
No, he thought, this war must not end that way.
I must not end that way. I
owe that at least much to Justain.
The thought of his son’s name snapped him instantly out of his morose. He quickly mounted his charger, and pulled his servant up behind him. The look in the eyes of his servant told him tat the boy was aware of his indecision. The look also told him the boy was extremely glad of the decision to depart the field.
“We shall live to fight another day!” he said to the boy with bravado as he wheeled his charger ad followed his men up the hill. Glancing back, he saw that the royal troops were just now rounding the turn in the road. By now, they would never catch up to his guard. All that remained was to follow them, and hope that the other Dukes would send aid.
Regardless, Reginald approached the keep to the welcome of a great shout from the men on the walls. He felt life inside his chest- purpose. It would take the royal forces several days to bring enough men inside the city to attempt to take the keep, so he knew there was now soon to be a lull. He knew that after the defense of the keep was set, and the men prepared, he would be spending at least part of that time with his wife.
Oblivious to the shouts of his men, he smiled at the thought.