Scout captain Ben Wroth extinguished his camp's dying fire, kicking heavy soil onto the hot charcoals. His unit tightening their saddle straps and fitting their packs, a grim look painted across their faces.
Smoke billowed over the valley, the border still emanating a fiery glow. Ash began to fall and swirl with the mud below, the very earth looking blackened and scorched. Ben kicked up dirt with his worn spurs, strapped to heavy riding boots and lengthy padded leggings.
The barony of Westmorret lay sprawling before the scouts, dozens of towns nestled in the glades before Alstowe. Its hillsides covered in dense greenery, any onlookers would be completely concealed.
The four scouts mounted their coursers, the sun just beginning to peak over the distant mountains to the East. They spurred into a canter down a well-used path, rutted and muddy; any overgrowth kept neatly cut and trimmed.
A light drizzle of rain coated the icy air and Ben pulled his cloak in tightly, knotting it at the breast.
'Alexander, you've a map of Westmorret?' he looked to his right-hand man, trotting closely behind him.
'We do, but it's old and possibly dated. I believe it was plotted some years before our Lord Harold the Fourth passed, could well be a separate state for all we know.' Alexander replied, scratching at a satchel buckle on his side.
Ben huffed, extending his hand behind him; gesturing for the map. Finally opening his satchel, Alexander passed over a yellowed and faded scroll. The captain of the scouts unfurled it and scanned it for a moment, glancing up at the surrounding landmarks as he passed over the parchment.
'There should be a town about half-a-day's ride from here,' captain Wroth tightened his grip on the reins, his horse carefully stepping down a particularly steep and narrow section of road, 'We'll make a short stop at the town, Ebbing the map says it's called, then head to somewhere we can get word to his grace.'
The group picked up speed and made their way into the depths of the verdant Westmorret highlands, thudding hooves echoing out into the valley.
The Cross and Rose meandered through the forest, eyes locked on the shadows surrounding them.
Ser Gavin's polished metal gauntlet waved through the air as he beckoned Ser Caister to his side, slowing the convoy as they met.
'I'd have hoped Ser Alder would have returned by now,' the captain mumbled, 'Can't have our coin go running off on us.'
Ser Caister stroked his beard, twirling a particularly long strand of moustache hair. His harness had seen better days, dents and blood stains scattered across its carapace; a symbol of strength, he always said. He had chosen to wear a deep navy cloak over his armour, buttoned over his chest— ties dangling loosely at the hip.
'Perhaps he was whisked away by the fae,' Ser Caister jested, 'All sorts lurking around us I presume.'
Ser Gavin stared blankly, persuading his charger into a faster trot. Ser Caister matched and they pulled away from the convoy, now in the comfort of privacy.
'The men would like to see open road by tomorrow, preferably towards someplace warm. With food.' The captain's aide warned, his eyes narrowed and brow firm.
'Yes, I should think that is appropriate. The great river can't be much further North, I'd wager we meet the highway before noon tomorrow. Payment for whichever cursed folk are running amok here be damned.' Ser Gavin agreed, his face now sprouting a few grey hairs; likely from his near-death experience.
The Cross and Rose slowly moved further into the wild, the twisted path becoming thin and unkempt as all light seemingly fell away. The company pulled lanterns from their wagons, unhooding them and illuminating the deep recesses of darkness; shadows now looming ever more menacingly.
They were hauling a plethora of corpses from their earlier combatants, stacked and tied down to the wagons; staining their carts a mixture of ocean green and pale orange. Their strange faces drew the gaze of every company-man, focusing on their outlandishly wide faces and deep-set eyes.
The mercenaries had calmed from the previous ordeal, now wary but ready for whenever the next attack might come. They rode in nervous uniformity, fingers itching at the hilt of their blades; calm demeanours twitching into fear for but a short moment.
Ser Gavin raised a hand as they came into a small clearing, daylight barely trickling through the treetops; still hardly enough to convince them it wasn't the dead of night.
'Make camp!' The captain ordered.
The wagons rounded into the clearing and tents were hastily set up, a defensible perimeter erected the moment boots hit the ground.
The captain sank into his saddle, his body aching; even as James set his stool down next to his horse, hoisting him from the charger and down to his step.
The company had seen better days, though they remained steadfast by the allure of walls and comfort only a few days away.
The Lord Mayor of Alstowe, Elizabeth Westmorret, sat in the Hall as messengers streamed in, hurried and forlorn. She was a woman of middling age, perhaps a few years shy of thirty; experience and brusqueness worn proudly on her face. Dressed for her position, she wore a heavy gown— expensive lace laid overtop, twisting from her neckline to her cuffs; ending in a tight frill. She sported a neat braid that sat over her shoulder, fashionable bands dotting her dirty-blonde hair.
A messenger approached her seat and kneeled, removing his bonnet and placing his hand over his chest.
'M'lady we've receieved news from the border towns,' he panted unfurling pages of scribbled notes from his waistcoat, 'A great fire has torn through the outposts bordering Sullea, we are unsure of Lord Westmorret's wherabouts as the North of the barony is now inaccessible.'
The Lady of Alstowe pondered for a moment, considering the news and turning to a portly man stood at her side; hands clasped behind his back. He leaned down to her, revealing his balding head and blotchy skin.
'How many men did my husband take to sortie?' She whispered, careful not to give anything away to nosy noblemen who filled the Hall.
'I believe he took just shy of two hundred men, most of which were men-at-arms and archers,' the aide recalled, 'I will have Apprentice Duro inquire as to the exact numbers.'
The noblewoman returned to the messenger and offered a brief smile, her calloused hands gripping the arms of her chair.
'Thank you for this news ser, however I ensure you this is no cause for concern,' she recited as she'd done countless times, 'Alstowe is well-protected, my husband has seen to it. I would bid you to make sure you do not incite panic.'
Her words hung in the air, poignant and confident; backed by Alstowe's ancient and long-standing walls, proving impenetrable to all sieges over its thousand year history.
The messenger shuffled to his feet, bowing before exiting the Hall and hurrying out into the demure streets of Alstowe.
Elizabeth relaxed, watching the prying eyes of rich men with fat purses; ready to jump at any sign of trouble in the barony. They played their role of bureaucracy well until cracks began to form, where she knew they'd be revealed as ravenous wolves; frothing at the bit for their pound of flesh.
Baroness Westmorret raised herself from her seat, taking the hand of her aide as he walked her out of the Hall; light rain enshrouding the city, a crisp and biting fog wafting through the streets.
Her companion lead her to the famed walls, built upon a large stone foundation— a relic of the Old Country. She gazed out upon the valley, spotting smokestacks over the hills in the distance; surrounded by a blurry red glow.
The smell of soot and ash crept into Alstowe as dark particles settled into the cobbled streets, dotting the streets like a cave painting. Elizabeth Westmorret's stoic look morphed into a grimace, the beautiful Broghe countryside — where ten generations of her family were born and raised — burning like kindling on the bonfire at the fair.
She looked to her aide, 'Urien is going to be alright won't he?' She searched his eyes for an answer and found a familiar stone wall, like the man had been possessed as a child; a quality she had always liked, such sensibility she always said.
He placed his hand over her cuff and revealed a bronze band wrapped around her wristed, ornately detailed and engraved.
The Lady sighed, running her fingers over the band, '"And I will be your hearth, when your heart grows weary. And I will be your strength, when the weight is too much to bear. And I will be the very earth beneath your feet, when I can no longer embrace you with mine arms." I always hated how he had such a way with words.'
A tear rolled down her cheek, quickly brushed away before the pair descended the walls.
