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Artisan
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A Knight’s Truth
A thick grey chill clung to the air even though the sun hung full overhead. Across the eastern hills he could hear the noon bells toll and see slim wisps of smoke rise from cook fires in the old fishing village. Turning his gaze back to the north and west he looked for any sign of the scouting party he’d sent out in the early morning hours. How hard could it be to find a dozen brigands? Thieves and murderers fleeing from the broken husk of the Galanthian army. Traitors and cowards, they’d taken to the highlands and mountains trying to escape Icenian justice. And it was his job to find them. His first task for country and crown since his knighting, his first true duty since rising into the vacant title left by the corpses of his father and brother. The first noble quest of Duke Broomis Bouchard.
Thirty odd men had made camp behind him. They’d started with forty, forty to find twelve, but it was the brigands who’d drawn first blood. An ambush in the Stonebrook Pass killed four of his men and then the enemy slipped away like phantoms into the rocky slopes and hidden caves. The whispers began passing through the ranks soon after. Never loud enough for him to hear, but he would be a fool not the know. He was the spoiled son, the second son. He was never meant for military duty. Six slim figures crested the horizon. There should have been eight. Two more lost, and if the remaining scouts have not drawn some blood of their own he may start to lose control of the men. Bouchard turned back toward his tent and set himself to receive what he already knew would be a grim report.
A wave of self-loathing took him the moment he stepped through the flaps of his tent. It was clean inside, too clean. Three weeks on the road and the curtains, the carpet, his family’s banner, all hung fresh and crisp without a stain. A goose feather mattress lay on top his soldier’s cot, mocking him. In the middle of his spacious quarters a small yet solid oak table stood with a plate of fresh haddock steaming and simmering in an orange brine. And his young squire, long red hair and sapphire blue eyes stood beaming at him with pride from across the table. “Your lunch is ready m’lord,” she said. He wanted to spit, and on the far side of the tent, for just a moment, he thought he saw the shadows flicker.
The man who sleeps here is soft. He’s weak. The man who sleeps here can’t win this fight.
“Summon the Captain and his lieutenant. Our scouts are about to return.” The Lady Jacelyn Corellia nodded at his command and scurried from the tent with a naïve haste. He had just a few moments left of silence before she returned with his men and their scouts arrived. So the Duke stood there in the quiet, and stared at his meal. The smell and hunger got the better of him, so he was sitting at the table shoveling a lump of fish meat into his mouth just as his squire returned with his men. He cursed himself and started to stand.
“M’lord.” That was pretty much all Captain Ganfrey ever said. M’lord this and M’lord that, three together and barely a sentence to the Duke except to answer direct questions. Broomis took it as a sure sign of his silent disrespect.
“I saw our scouts over the hill coming back to camp. They should be here any minute, and I wanted you here to hear the report.” Captain Ganfrey simply nodded, and kept his damnable silence. And so they waited, trying not to look at each other as the Duke picked at now much smaller pieces of fish.
That man served your brother. He knows you’ll never be him.
The Duke startled, and snapped his head around the tent. Did he really hear that, or was he just now realizing what he already knew? “How long have you served our House, Captain Ganfrey?”
Ganfrey was grey and grizzled. He eyes never moved when he spoke, he just stared ahead eyes locked on the banner hanging on the back canvas wall. “Seven years, M’lord. I fought with your brother against the Galanthians.” It was the first time the Captain had spoken to Broomis of anything with pride.
He was with them when they died. If he’d protected them better, you’d still be with her.
A sentry called from outside, and within moments a ranger was escorted in. He looked grim and bloodied, and he was doing a piss poor job of hiding his sense of defeat. His men were no doubt already spreading tales through the camp. They’d be striding up to the lunch time cook fires looking for wine and food and would tell every soldier at hand how they were ambushed. They’d talk of how the brigands fought like madmen and monsters, and by the time the lunch was done the twelve brigands would be twenty or more. Another hour after that and they’ll be whispers of necromancers and dead men in their ranks. Broomis just stared at the scout and held back his need to spit. “What happened out there?” was all he asked.
“M’lord! We found them in the northwest slopes as we suspected, but they’re hold up tight in the mountain. They ambushed us with arrow fire, killed Loric and Shain.”
“And how many did you kill in return?”
“None, m’lord. The archers ran from their perch down into a ravine. The men wanted to give chase, but it seemed a trap and I ordered them all fall back.”
The Duke considered this ranger heavily for a moment then. He’d made the right call, and likely saved the rest of his men. It was the kind of sound judgement he need more of in his men, but there were still two more dead and nothing to show for it. He decided to say nothing and simply nodded to a map spread out over another table. “Show us where they are ranger.” The scout was dismissed once he’d marked the map, and Broomis stood there considering the task ahead with his Captain and Squire.
“They’ve picked good terrain,” Captain Ganfrey said when the three had some privacy. “It’s not just high ground, the approach is exposed and a steep climb up a rocky slope. They don’t even need bows and arrows there, they can pick our men off with rocks.”
He actually sounds glib.
“Let me lead the charge, sir!” No one could ever say Jacelyn Correlia was not brave. Evorran to the core, she was eager for the fight and the chance to prove herself, and had been since the first day she entered Bouchard’s service. A little too headstrong of course, and perhaps not all that bright.
“Don’t be daft girl, you’ll never make it within ten feet.” Captain Ganfrey never looked at her as he dismissed her out of hand. “We have no approach from the south. We should raise camp, circle round them and come down from the north. We can travel up the river shore through the fishing villages. They’ll have traded with them most likely, can tell us more about their numbers and their arms.”
“That will take days. They’re not just going to sit there while we move our army around for a better way to kill them all. We still have them outnumbered nearly three to one, with heavy armor and shields. We should make our assault head on and with honor while we still have the advantage in numbers and arms.”
Broomis was proud of his squire. She was stalwart and defiant. So sure or herself, as he himself had never been. He caught himself glancing at her for a moment, red hair and glimmering blue eyes. She was already a better knight then he was, of course she’d be trained for it all her life. Had she ever known love before? Had she ever had to know the pain of losing it? Jacelyn caught his gaze and gave him a reassuring nod. She raised her chin, gripped her sword hilt, and stared at him plaintively, begging for the chance to prove herself on the field.
Your brother would make the charge. Of course that’s how he died, on a Galanthian spear wall next to your father. Where do you think Ganfrey was when that happened? Was he cleverly taking a few days to sneak around the enemy flank while your family was murdered?
Broomis choked down a mouthful of bile. His hand shook by the hilt of his dagger, but another moment’s breathe and he was calm again. The captain had the right of it. A frontal assault on that ground and half his men would be dead by nightfall. He couldn’t fault his squire for it though. Her head was still full of stories, flashing swords and fire where honor always won the day. She wasn’t entirely wrong either. The Galanthian brigands were not going to sit there and wait.
You already know the way to victory Broomis. Honor won’t win this fight, nor will stealth. But you can.
Broomis’s stomach growled again. He’d cut his meal short and now the fish was getting cold and starting to stink. He stared at haddock drawing flies on the table, and he saw his path with crystal clarity. The shadows flickered again, his eyes glimmered, and the Duke leaned forward on the balls of his feet as he looked again at the map.
“We starve them out.”
His captain and his squire exchanged a puzzled glance. “M’lord?” They both asked, almost in unison.
“This is a siege, think of it like a siege. We cut off their supply line and wait for them to grow desperate and weak. They’ve got no livestock or harvest fields up in the mountain. Just the villages by the river, so we cut them off and let time takes its toll.” And in the darkness, Broomis Bouchard could swear he saw his father looking back at him now. “Strike bold, my son. Strike bold. You know where this has to lead now.”
Captain Ganfrey gave a small, forced cough. “Sir…. It’s… a sound strategy. But there are half a dozen villages or more along the river. We don’t have enough men to guard them all. We’d be spread too thin and lose our advantage in numbers.”
“We’re not going to guard them, Captain.” Broomis had gone cold and serene. He shared a knowing gaze with his captain, and nothing more needed to be said. The young Jacelyn, however, either did not understand what was being said, or simply did not want to. Ganfrey gave a slow nod, and left the tent as quickly as he could. And his squire’s young blue eyes simply looked at him with confusion.
“My lord?” she asked, speaking much more slowly now. Broomis took a step toward her, and gripped her by the shoulders. “Take five men to the closest village, Jacelyn. You will torch the docks, and then kill the cattle and sheep.” She tried to pull away violently, but Broomis was still much larger and stronger.
“M’lord! We’re soldiers of the Icenian army…” She said it like it actually meant something. One look at Duke Bouchard’s cold eyes told her otherwise. “They’re just fishermen… we can’t just…. We can’t….” And nothing, still nothing.
It’s treason to give aid to the enemy. Is that not the law?
“These are Galanthians we’re chasing. How many years of war and families murdered because of them? How many fathers and brothers speared and gored and their corpses left on the field to rot? If these fishermen are giving food and relief to our enemies, then they are not fishermen… they’re traitors.”
“And… what about honor… our honor… m’lord?”
What about your father’s honor? Your brother’s? Does your new wife remember his honor, the man she was supposed to marry? Did his fiancée honor him well in your wedding bed?
Broomis started to squeeze her shoulders so hard her body almost lifted off the ground. He let her go, roughly, spun around and swiped the dishes off his table. “Honor, Jacelyn? Honor is victory. It belongs only to those who come home alive and with glory. That’s the sad truth of war. The thing they don’t want to tell you when you’re a child. The dead get forgotten, their titles, lands, and even wives handed off to someone else. What we do may be distasteful, but this is how we win.”
“And when they resist?”
“You do your duty, Jacelyn Correlia. Duty is a knightly virtue too, isn’t it? Duty to your country, crown, and lord…. Even before your own honor, yes?” It wasn’t really a question, and Jacelyn knew it. She simply nodded in acquiescence. “Then do your duty, Squire Correlia,” Bouchard said, and his squire left his tent, her head hung low, her defiant blue eyes gone cold and grey.
She’ll learn. You did her a service telling her the truth of it. You’re not the knight or soldier your father and your brother were, but you’re going to be the one who survives, Duke Broomis Bouchard. Your House is going to survive. Because of you, because you’re going to do what you have to do, and you’re going to win.
By nightfall a half a dozen dock fires could be seen stretching out along the river bank. Faint screams could be heard on the chill northern wind. Or was that just the shadows again.
A Knight’s Truth
A thick grey chill clung to the air even though the sun hung full overhead. Across the eastern hills he could hear the noon bells toll and see slim wisps of smoke rise from cook fires in the old fishing village. Turning his gaze back to the north and west he looked for any sign of the scouting party he’d sent out in the early morning hours. How hard could it be to find a dozen brigands? Thieves and murderers fleeing from the broken husk of the Galanthian army. Traitors and cowards, they’d taken to the highlands and mountains trying to escape Icenian justice. And it was his job to find them. His first task for country and crown since his knighting, his first true duty since rising into the vacant title left by the corpses of his father and brother. The first noble quest of Duke Broomis Bouchard.
Thirty odd men had made camp behind him. They’d started with forty, forty to find twelve, but it was the brigands who’d drawn first blood. An ambush in the Stonebrook Pass killed four of his men and then the enemy slipped away like phantoms into the rocky slopes and hidden caves. The whispers began passing through the ranks soon after. Never loud enough for him to hear, but he would be a fool not the know. He was the spoiled son, the second son. He was never meant for military duty. Six slim figures crested the horizon. There should have been eight. Two more lost, and if the remaining scouts have not drawn some blood of their own he may start to lose control of the men. Bouchard turned back toward his tent and set himself to receive what he already knew would be a grim report.
A wave of self-loathing took him the moment he stepped through the flaps of his tent. It was clean inside, too clean. Three weeks on the road and the curtains, the carpet, his family’s banner, all hung fresh and crisp without a stain. A goose feather mattress lay on top his soldier’s cot, mocking him. In the middle of his spacious quarters a small yet solid oak table stood with a plate of fresh haddock steaming and simmering in an orange brine. And his young squire, long red hair and sapphire blue eyes stood beaming at him with pride from across the table. “Your lunch is ready m’lord,” she said. He wanted to spit, and on the far side of the tent, for just a moment, he thought he saw the shadows flicker.
The man who sleeps here is soft. He’s weak. The man who sleeps here can’t win this fight.
“Summon the Captain and his lieutenant. Our scouts are about to return.” The Lady Jacelyn Corellia nodded at his command and scurried from the tent with a naïve haste. He had just a few moments left of silence before she returned with his men and their scouts arrived. So the Duke stood there in the quiet, and stared at his meal. The smell and hunger got the better of him, so he was sitting at the table shoveling a lump of fish meat into his mouth just as his squire returned with his men. He cursed himself and started to stand.
“M’lord.” That was pretty much all Captain Ganfrey ever said. M’lord this and M’lord that, three together and barely a sentence to the Duke except to answer direct questions. Broomis took it as a sure sign of his silent disrespect.
“I saw our scouts over the hill coming back to camp. They should be here any minute, and I wanted you here to hear the report.” Captain Ganfrey simply nodded, and kept his damnable silence. And so they waited, trying not to look at each other as the Duke picked at now much smaller pieces of fish.
That man served your brother. He knows you’ll never be him.
The Duke startled, and snapped his head around the tent. Did he really hear that, or was he just now realizing what he already knew? “How long have you served our House, Captain Ganfrey?”
Ganfrey was grey and grizzled. He eyes never moved when he spoke, he just stared ahead eyes locked on the banner hanging on the back canvas wall. “Seven years, M’lord. I fought with your brother against the Galanthians.” It was the first time the Captain had spoken to Broomis of anything with pride.
He was with them when they died. If he’d protected them better, you’d still be with her.
A sentry called from outside, and within moments a ranger was escorted in. He looked grim and bloodied, and he was doing a piss poor job of hiding his sense of defeat. His men were no doubt already spreading tales through the camp. They’d be striding up to the lunch time cook fires looking for wine and food and would tell every soldier at hand how they were ambushed. They’d talk of how the brigands fought like madmen and monsters, and by the time the lunch was done the twelve brigands would be twenty or more. Another hour after that and they’ll be whispers of necromancers and dead men in their ranks. Broomis just stared at the scout and held back his need to spit. “What happened out there?” was all he asked.
“M’lord! We found them in the northwest slopes as we suspected, but they’re hold up tight in the mountain. They ambushed us with arrow fire, killed Loric and Shain.”
“And how many did you kill in return?”
“None, m’lord. The archers ran from their perch down into a ravine. The men wanted to give chase, but it seemed a trap and I ordered them all fall back.”
The Duke considered this ranger heavily for a moment then. He’d made the right call, and likely saved the rest of his men. It was the kind of sound judgement he need more of in his men, but there were still two more dead and nothing to show for it. He decided to say nothing and simply nodded to a map spread out over another table. “Show us where they are ranger.” The scout was dismissed once he’d marked the map, and Broomis stood there considering the task ahead with his Captain and Squire.
“They’ve picked good terrain,” Captain Ganfrey said when the three had some privacy. “It’s not just high ground, the approach is exposed and a steep climb up a rocky slope. They don’t even need bows and arrows there, they can pick our men off with rocks.”
He actually sounds glib.
“Let me lead the charge, sir!” No one could ever say Jacelyn Correlia was not brave. Evorran to the core, she was eager for the fight and the chance to prove herself, and had been since the first day she entered Bouchard’s service. A little too headstrong of course, and perhaps not all that bright.
“Don’t be daft girl, you’ll never make it within ten feet.” Captain Ganfrey never looked at her as he dismissed her out of hand. “We have no approach from the south. We should raise camp, circle round them and come down from the north. We can travel up the river shore through the fishing villages. They’ll have traded with them most likely, can tell us more about their numbers and their arms.”
“That will take days. They’re not just going to sit there while we move our army around for a better way to kill them all. We still have them outnumbered nearly three to one, with heavy armor and shields. We should make our assault head on and with honor while we still have the advantage in numbers and arms.”
Broomis was proud of his squire. She was stalwart and defiant. So sure or herself, as he himself had never been. He caught himself glancing at her for a moment, red hair and glimmering blue eyes. She was already a better knight then he was, of course she’d be trained for it all her life. Had she ever known love before? Had she ever had to know the pain of losing it? Jacelyn caught his gaze and gave him a reassuring nod. She raised her chin, gripped her sword hilt, and stared at him plaintively, begging for the chance to prove herself on the field.
Your brother would make the charge. Of course that’s how he died, on a Galanthian spear wall next to your father. Where do you think Ganfrey was when that happened? Was he cleverly taking a few days to sneak around the enemy flank while your family was murdered?
Broomis choked down a mouthful of bile. His hand shook by the hilt of his dagger, but another moment’s breathe and he was calm again. The captain had the right of it. A frontal assault on that ground and half his men would be dead by nightfall. He couldn’t fault his squire for it though. Her head was still full of stories, flashing swords and fire where honor always won the day. She wasn’t entirely wrong either. The Galanthian brigands were not going to sit there and wait.
You already know the way to victory Broomis. Honor won’t win this fight, nor will stealth. But you can.
Broomis’s stomach growled again. He’d cut his meal short and now the fish was getting cold and starting to stink. He stared at haddock drawing flies on the table, and he saw his path with crystal clarity. The shadows flickered again, his eyes glimmered, and the Duke leaned forward on the balls of his feet as he looked again at the map.
“We starve them out.”
His captain and his squire exchanged a puzzled glance. “M’lord?” They both asked, almost in unison.
“This is a siege, think of it like a siege. We cut off their supply line and wait for them to grow desperate and weak. They’ve got no livestock or harvest fields up in the mountain. Just the villages by the river, so we cut them off and let time takes its toll.” And in the darkness, Broomis Bouchard could swear he saw his father looking back at him now. “Strike bold, my son. Strike bold. You know where this has to lead now.”
Captain Ganfrey gave a small, forced cough. “Sir…. It’s… a sound strategy. But there are half a dozen villages or more along the river. We don’t have enough men to guard them all. We’d be spread too thin and lose our advantage in numbers.”
“We’re not going to guard them, Captain.” Broomis had gone cold and serene. He shared a knowing gaze with his captain, and nothing more needed to be said. The young Jacelyn, however, either did not understand what was being said, or simply did not want to. Ganfrey gave a slow nod, and left the tent as quickly as he could. And his squire’s young blue eyes simply looked at him with confusion.
“My lord?” she asked, speaking much more slowly now. Broomis took a step toward her, and gripped her by the shoulders. “Take five men to the closest village, Jacelyn. You will torch the docks, and then kill the cattle and sheep.” She tried to pull away violently, but Broomis was still much larger and stronger.
“M’lord! We’re soldiers of the Icenian army…” She said it like it actually meant something. One look at Duke Bouchard’s cold eyes told her otherwise. “They’re just fishermen… we can’t just…. We can’t….” And nothing, still nothing.
It’s treason to give aid to the enemy. Is that not the law?
“These are Galanthians we’re chasing. How many years of war and families murdered because of them? How many fathers and brothers speared and gored and their corpses left on the field to rot? If these fishermen are giving food and relief to our enemies, then they are not fishermen… they’re traitors.”
“And… what about honor… our honor… m’lord?”
What about your father’s honor? Your brother’s? Does your new wife remember his honor, the man she was supposed to marry? Did his fiancée honor him well in your wedding bed?
Broomis started to squeeze her shoulders so hard her body almost lifted off the ground. He let her go, roughly, spun around and swiped the dishes off his table. “Honor, Jacelyn? Honor is victory. It belongs only to those who come home alive and with glory. That’s the sad truth of war. The thing they don’t want to tell you when you’re a child. The dead get forgotten, their titles, lands, and even wives handed off to someone else. What we do may be distasteful, but this is how we win.”
“And when they resist?”
“You do your duty, Jacelyn Correlia. Duty is a knightly virtue too, isn’t it? Duty to your country, crown, and lord…. Even before your own honor, yes?” It wasn’t really a question, and Jacelyn knew it. She simply nodded in acquiescence. “Then do your duty, Squire Correlia,” Bouchard said, and his squire left his tent, her head hung low, her defiant blue eyes gone cold and grey.
She’ll learn. You did her a service telling her the truth of it. You’re not the knight or soldier your father and your brother were, but you’re going to be the one who survives, Duke Broomis Bouchard. Your House is going to survive. Because of you, because you’re going to do what you have to do, and you’re going to win.
By nightfall a half a dozen dock fires could be seen stretching out along the river bank. Faint screams could be heard on the chill northern wind. Or was that just the shadows again.