by J P Corwyn
“Lanwreigh of Eastshadow, Kaith of Thorion - one of the Countess’s men. As I told you, I’m no good at explaining it. Not clearly, at any rate. Kaith is the one who explained it to me, and so I thought he’d be the best choice to explain it to you.”
Still thinking of what the stable hand had said; Kaith gently extricated himself from under Robis's hand as he stepped forward to bow in deference to Lanwreigh. If Robis noted the brevity of their contact, he seemed to take no offense.
“Robis has been very good to me,” Lanwreigh said. Like Robis, his voice hadn’t fully finished its transition into manhood, though it seemed to be handling the change with a little less fanfare. His, at least, was a bit smoother in timbre. “I don’t know why, but I’m certainly grateful. I'd be grateful for any help you could give, sir.”
Kaith straightened, offered a sheepish grin, and shook his head.
“I’m no knight, my Lord, so I think it best we begin there. While I appreciate the honorific, best I be plain with you.” Representing oneself as a knight in Thorion County was an offense punishable by, at the least, imprisonment. Depending on what gifts or favors one either received or attempted to receive by virtue of that impersonation, the punishment could well be death.
Lanwreigh blushed, then blanched - a very striking shift in skin color with rather rapid succession.
“You see, Robis?” Lanwreigh shook his head, eyes downcast. “I’m hopeless. It’s as if my every meal consisted of little more than boot leather.” He chuckled through his mild misery. “…With a bowl of humble pudding for after’s...”
His tone suggested he were more darkly amused at himself then outright embarrassed, though judging by his high color; Kaith suspected embarrassment wasn’t far below the surface.
Robis shook his head, still grinning. Turning his attention back to Kaith, he spoke anew.
“Lanwreigh was recently betrothed. He finally got to meet his intended at the banquet the night of the tournament.”
“I…” Lanwreigh shook his head, then pressed on. “I had no idea how to speak to her,” he finally managed. “My feet felt too big and clumsy, my tongue in knots...I was afraid I was going to open my mouth to speak to her and start to drool, trip over myself - break wind or something!” Whatever embarrassment he’d felt that night, he seemed to be in a good humor about it now, so Kaith reckoned it must’ve gone alright.
“Fortunately,” Robis’s tone suggested he was having far too much fun relating the story, “I knew the girl. Alysuun of Southwall: Lady Marcza’s younger half-sister.”
Kaith nodded, lifting both eyebrows and grinned. If the girl was anything like her elder sister, she would be both fierce and fair.
“And so,” said Kaith, “You kindly offered your services to smooth the path, as it were, is that it, Master Robis?”
Robis began to chuckle at Kaith’s chiding tone. He nodded and tried on a serious expression that didn’t quite fit his face. He seemed incapable of holding onto such a confirmed countenance, however. A breath later; he was chuckling-near-giggling once more. Lanwreigh actually turned and punched him in the arm - an act which turned Robis’s chuckle into an outright belly laugh.
“Well?” Robis might’ve actually gotten away with sounding wounded if he weren’t too busy laughing, “What was I to do? You were just sitting there mooning over her from across the banquet hall, trying desperately not to make eye contact, all the while glaring daggers out of the corner of your eye at any man - even my father mind you - who so much as spoke with her.” His laughter faded, though that quicksand smile (which seemed never too far from his face today) made another appearance. “I loudly asked my father whether or not there would be dancing this evening. He thought it an excellent idea, minstrels were called in, and a few minutes after the tables had been cleared away, the evening’s dancing had begun.”
“Alright, alright, enough,” Lanwreigh shoved Robis playfully. It seemed he’d finally reached his limit for stories at his expense today. “We aren’t here to mock me. We’re here to teach me.” He paused, pushing Robis once more. “Something you failed to do, by your own admission.” He turned his attention back to the older man. “Kaith. Robis tells me that there is more to command and who gives it during combat than simply the person with the most rank or station. Is that right?”
“That’s not...” Kaith paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, “That’s both true and false, my Lord.”
"I told you," Robis said. "I can't explain it yet. It makes sense to me, but I can't put it into words that say it plainly." Judging by his tone, Robis seemed more pleased than frustrated at this admission.
“I’ll explain it the best I can, my Lords – the same way Greggor and Valgar explained it to me.” He looked down for a moment to collect his thoughts. When he saw Lamwreigh’s expectant face a moment later, he offered a reassuring smile. “A single stick can easily be broken - that's the individual man on the field. A group of sticks held together is much harder to break - that's the unit, you and your fellows. The hand that brings them and binds them together? That's the leader."
Lanwreigh gave a slow nod.
"So; leadership, in its simplest form, is the tie that binds a group together so that it can act together,” said Kaith. “One of the most important things you can do as a part of any unit is to keep your mind and actions in lockstep with the person in command. A line only moves as quickly as its slowest man, right? If the line moves with its members each managing a different pace from the person next to them; it isn’t really a line. It’s a fresh scar waiting to be reopened.”
Lanwreigh nodded again. He knew this part already. Like most of the nobility, he’d been trained to fight both alone and in small units from the time he’d been able to lift both shield and wooden sword simultaneously.
“You have to stay together," said he.
"Exactly," Kaith nodded back, offering an encouraging smile. "That means you have to get your mind wrapped around staying on task together. When whoever the commander of your unit happens to be gives an order, you need to be ready to follow it, and you need to make certain that those around you are right in step with you.” Seeing Lanwreigh was still with him, Kaith pressed on. “What happens if you see something new on the field, and nobody, not even your commander, is making the call to address it? Are you going to wait for - for example - a flanking unit to come up and strike you and your fellows before you say something?”
Lanwreigh’s face showed dawning comprehension: the light beginning to kindle in his eyes.
“No,” he laughed, “certainly not. But; is it my place to override the commander’s plans?”
“Not unless something else is going to override those plans for you, no.” Kaith saw Valgar approaching from the castle’s grand building. His tall, slender form made him easy to spot even in a sea of other blonde heads. He did his best to hurry his lesson along. If Valgar was coming this way; there was a reasonable chance it was Kaith he was looking for. “If you’re not passing word to your commander about what you see or hear, you’re failing your fellows. If something’s coming and there isn’t time to pass a question up to whoever is in command, or if there’s nobody actively in command, then it’s your duty to the rest of your fellows to make the decision, and give the order. If you have a commander still active on the field with you and he gets cross with you for speaking out of turn, that isn’t the time to argue. Explain it to him in as few words as you can while getting your point across. If that doesn’t work, let him resume command. Explain to him what you saw – in private, once the battle’s ended. If he remains angry, you’ve learned the type of person you’re dealing with. Given your rank and station, you’re certainly not going to get flogged over some knight’s bad temper. Not saying anything, however, will almost certainly lead to defeat. Saying something, at worst…” He trailed off.
"… Might lead us to survival, and that could lead us to victory." Lanwreigh's face looked thoughtful. His posture and tone suggested that the message
had gotten through and that he was already beginning to apply it mentally to previous experiences he'd had or seen.
“Kaith!” Valgar’s voice. “You’re to come with me. Pardon my Lords,” he bowed briefly. “…but the Countess requires the both of us straightaway.”
Robis and Lanwreigh simply nodded. As Kaith made a brief bow in their direction, Robis spoke up.
"If we don't get to speak this evening, or on the road to Westsong, we'll come find you around the fire at night, if that suits you?"
Kaith nodded, bade the pair farewell, and fell into step beside Valgar.
He’d hoped that Valgar would explain what it was he was meant to go and do, but the older man was strangely silent as they walked across the cobbles of the courtyard. It wasn’t until they’d entered the final hall which led to the throne room that he finally spoke up.
“You and I are to attend her Excellency as she accepts an oath of fealty.” He allowed a brief smile to bloom on his face as Kaith nodded his acceptance.
For his part, Kaith was confused as to why he was being called in for a task such as this. Normally this duty would fall to both Valgar and Greggor, after all. Still, if he needed to know more, Valgar would tell him.
As they moved beyond the final doors into the throne room, Kaith noted an aged man in a long white tunic. He was stood a few feet from the Countess as she sat in state. They were speaking, and although their voices were low; they weren’t taking pains to be exceptionally quiet. The vaulted ceilings and stone arches made even whispers audible two or three yards away from their source.
Valgar raised a hand to hold them up just inside the main door. Once Kaith had stopped, Valgar nodded off to his right, then clasped his own hands behind his back and spread his feet to shoulders width apart. A moment later and Kaith had mirrored him on his right, as indicated. Silent communication like this was something the pair had worked on for years, almost since Kaith had first joined their number.
“Sir Cedric tells me they've even begun construction on a village and outpost on the north side of the river, your Excellency. According to his scouts, one could charitably consider the rapidity with which they've managed to stand up the hamlet or Thorpe, or however, they're officially styling it, as unnerving. More colloquially; it's been called miraculous.”
As the old man spoke, Kaith, at last, recognized him for who he was. Sir Valad - the oldest living knight still in combat service. His voice was rich and sure, carrying with it the sort of natural authority that made it easy to carry out his will and uncomfortable to stand against it.
“I presume the truth is, as is so often the case, somewhere in between those two extremes…” The Countess trailed off. This was a long-standing habit - it served to invite others to continue the conversation.
Valad nodded. He paused for a moment, looking down as if collecting his thoughts, then lifted his head again to meet the Countess’s eyes.
“The matter seems simple enough, to my mind. There is sorcery at play. That fear, more than any fear over their force of arms, is likely the only reason the vultures here at court haven't sent embassage north. Otherwise, I fear they would actively try and leverage themselves to take Thorion's high seat." This was stated with such a bald, matter-of-fact tone behind it that Valad might have been commenting about falling rain.
"I think that goes without saying,” the Countess quirked a smile. “After all, reports say that the goblins have increased their forays into the foothills west of the Frost Fangs, there’s been no witch-fog rolling in off of the river for nearly a year, and in that time the Coach Devour hasn’t been seen by anyone who could be accounted sober.” She paused for a moment, before concluding, “Not since the night of the Long Moon last harvest.”
Valad nodded a single time. When he spoke again a moment later, however, the smile that played across his face was plain for everyone in the room to hear.
“And of course; there are those who have come from that fledgling northern realm to trade for, and in some cases outright purchase, slaves in the lower market.”
The Countess lifted both slender eyebrows in a look of mild surprise, though her beatific face otherwise bore a bemused expression.
“Very shrewd of you to offer the rights to an otherwise vacant and unused watchtower,” Valad continued. “In one stroke, you removed the sudden influx of raw gold coin into Thorion County’s economy and prevented bandits from taking over and roosting in a reasonably well-fortified location by placing motivated tenants there. Tenants who are quite used to the expense of mercenary guards, at that. That led to you securing trade from that same merchant caravan for, at the very least, another year.” He paused, then made a dismissive gesture, before concluding, “Come, Ylspeth… Don’t look so surprised. Of what use would I be to you if you were better than me at absolutely everything?”
Her smile was thin but genuine. Of all that served or claimed to serve her and the County throne, only Valad could risk-taking such liberty when addressing her. No other could speak to her in such a common and personal manner without fear of reprisal.
“Your base flattery will curry no favor with me this day, Sir Valad. Of that, you can be certain." Her tone was almost playful, almost sarcastic, and almost genuinely disapproving.
“Base flattery? Hardly.” He chuckled and shook his head, a whisper of pine song and summer thunder. “I daresay you can still teach half the knight’s in the County what dunces they truly are with the blade, or what abysmal shots with the bow. Besides, it was you who taught me how to spot such things, if you will recall.”
“That was some time ago, Sir Valad. I doubt I could even lift a sword, let alone wield one, now.”
“Fifty years next moonrise, Countess." His tone was the audible equivalent of an arched brow. "You began those lessons half a century ago as of next month…I've forgotten neither the date nor the lessons."
She made a gesture of acquiescence, but her look of bemusement was now painted with a thin blush of color that remained stubbornly on her face.
“Tell me, goodly knight; have your reports and scouts told you what name its people call this new realm? Or do most still believe that region to be controlled by the mortal servants of the Shivering Song, herself?” Her tone made it clear that she, at the least, didn’t hold to that opinion.
“Dairy something, Excellency. The Dairy of Khans, I believe.” He shrugged, then finished, “Such is the rumor, at any rate. Nothing I would swear to, only what I have heard. It does make a certain amount of sense, given that there have been a great many folk of Shesh heritage spotted north of the river. The leaders of Sheshic nomadic tribes are titled Khans, are they not?”
“They are,” said she, “But that is not its name, though you would be forgiven for thinking so. They call it Dereek khn. It’s named in the spell tongue, Calyari.” She took pains to pronounce the exotic words with care. “Dair-eek meaning mountain’s and khonn, meaning edge. Thus Dereek khn – Mountain’s Edge: that is how it runs in the Trade Tongue.”
He made a gesture of acceptance and let the silence play out. Further discussion seemed unnecessary. She would make a final decision as to how to interact with their Northern neighbors. Her knights would carry that decision forward and do her bidding – most of them, at any rate.
After perhaps thirty seconds; Ylspeth made a gesture with her left hand which beckoned both Valgar and Kaith forward.
Kaith shook himself out of his fervor and did his best not to look thunderstruck by what he'd heard. He wasn't much for political maneuverings and knew very little about gold and the way it worked within larger rooms of power such as this. He'd also never been present for such frank (and frankly high-level) discussions.
After a moment, he and Valgar took up places on either side of the Countess’s throne and resumed their stances.
As if at some silent and invisible cue, the aged knight took a step back from the dais upon which the throne sat, centered himself before it, straightened his spine, and spoke in formal tones.<
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“Your Excellency. I thank you for granting me this audience.”
“The Thorion Throne is honored to have you in its presence. What boon would you ask for your many years of excellent service?”
“I have come, your Excellency, to renew my oath of fealty. To kneel today, as I have each year since the first. To know that I have done your bidding, that you are pleased with my service, and, with your blessing, to rise with my mind clean and refocused toward the task of service to the Throne of Thorion County.”
The Countess stood, her hair, honey streaked with silver-gray cascading over her shoulders and down her back, and made a gesture to indicate that Valad should proceed.
With no noise save the flutter of his long white tunic, Valad dropped easily to one knee, head bowed, right fist pressed against the lifelike patterns of long grasses which had been deftly rendered upon the throne room’s floor.
“Speak your oath, Valad.”
There was a long pause before the man obeyed.
“I, Valad of Thorion, Lord of Knell’s Stone, do swear upon my life and honor, soul and sword…” When at last he spoke; his voice was steady enough, but his words were carried on a current of obviously strong emotion. “I will teach and train, listen and learn, speak and sponsor, fight and forgive, dream and die in service to the Thorion throne. I will watch and warn, act and accept on the will and word of the keeper of my oath; Ylspeth of Kne-“ he cut himself off and amended, “Ylspeth of Thorion: until death take me, the sky falls, or the stars refuse to shine.”
The Countess stepped forward, splaying her fingers and laying them atop the short, iron-gray waves of Valad's lowered head. This small ceremony wasn't a matter for pomp or circumstance. Not for this man, at any rate. It had been deeply personal as if it bore a near-religious significance to him.
When a moment later she began to speak; her voice was no more than a whisper. After a few halting moments, however, it once again wore its customary coat of rich alto tones.
