Disclaimer: The following book is in some small ways related to TRF (some parallels and characters inspired from it). Also, since I originally wrote it in Word Perfect, all the spacing is off. No way in hell am I doing fifty plus pages worth of spacing, so it might work if you cut and paste it into an editor.
I wrote this book a little while ago for a school project. It's hardly great, but I do like it and this website has a lot of writing on it anyways, so I thought, "why not?" Enjoy. Oh, and the italics and bolds and such are also gone. It's a pain, I know, but it should still be more than servicible. Feel free to read if you have nothing whatsoever to do.
The Six Nations of the Dunholt
Book 1
The freedom of Cairn-Camari
The day was still unfolding on the hills and rocks that spread out before Blockhouse 118, the golden light driving the last clouds of night before it and breathing life back into the sleeping world. It seeped through the windows of the old stone building, through cracks in the thin curtains, to rest on the face of the sleeping captain - captain Aron Kobar, of the Cairn-Camari army, unit 118, the district of Sycamore Valley.
Under his rough blanket, his eyelids flickered as he tried to resist the rise of morning, but it was no use. The light stubbornly refused to dim, and so ever so slowly he rose with it.
To the window he went, and pushed aside the curtains - looking out on the gentle, rolling landscape of Sycamore, dotted with the trees that gave the region it’s name. The sunlight was just now creeping over the mountains that in the distance marked the boundaries of the land. Aron squinted in the light, blinking several times to dispel the sleep from his eyes, and turned in towards his quarters. He sighed.
Why is it always such a mess in here?, Aron wondered, as he picked through the odds and ends scattered across the wooden floor - a razor here, a clean pair of socks there. The weighty sword was still unpolished, the equally weighty shield had yet to be repaired. Ignoring these tasks, the captain maintained his search until he found his comb and small mirror, and went to the rest room.
Here, at least, was a privilege of rank. The young captain had unruly black hair and always a day’s worth of stubble. Aron prided himself on being one shave short of a clean face, and despite regulation letting his hair grow however it wanted. Blockhouse 118 was too far out for any official inspection, anyways. Nevertheless, on this morning he made a few token efforts to straighten his hair and at least shave some of the scruffier areas. He inspected the effect in the mirror, and as he began to wake up sighed at the mildly gaunt and sallow face that looked back. It hadn’t always been like this...
It had been five years ago, and captain Aron had been just private Aron, an excitable young recruit in the Cairn-Camari Army. He was holding a spear he hardly knew how to use, a sword he could barely lift, and wore armor that weighed more than he did, but surrounded by the ranks of armored men he felt invincible - surrounded by the Grand Army of the Duke of Camari, on the fields outside the capital of Cairn Stone. Yellow banners whipped in the wind, emblazoned with Cairn-Camari’s heraldric brown stag.
He looked around at the nearest men, but found each grim-jawed and silent. A man of at least fifty with a flowing, greying beard puffed furiously at a pipe, but beyond that the entire regiment was near motionless. Aron felt a little disoriented, but again stayed silent.
He’d signed up for the usual reasons - duke, country, your own bed, and a chance to save the world from some sort of terrible evil. Of course, all he had to work with were the recruitment posters, but whatever they were facing it had looked fairly intimidating. The older soldiers, who had been fighting the war up until this point, had only told young Aron the enemy’s name - the Dunholt. Aron still looked back darkly at how naive he’d been then, but a great deal of that naivety would die when he finally looked across the battlefield at what they were facing.
“Keep in line you lot!” bellowed a sergeant with just one good eye, waving a notched sword above his head and pacing before Aron’s unit. “The good Duke is going to have a talk with our friends on the other side of this field! If you see a white flag, that means we go home. If you hear lots of shouting and someone kills someone else - well, that means you do as I say!”
“Man, I hope we fight.” a recruit had said, standing somewhere behind Aron. “I heard these Dunholt kicked the Oralian Army’s ass, so they’ve gotta be real supermen.”
Aron hadn’t said anything, he’d just looked out across the field, squinting at the tent where the leaders of both armies would be negotiating before the battle.
“Hey, you ever seen a Dunholt?” said the recruit behind Aron. “I hear they’re not men at all, just suits of armor and weapons. They don’t eat or sleep or anything.”
“And you believe that?” Aron had said, laughing “No, I hope you’re true. I’d love to fight an enemy that hasn’t had any sleep in months - they’d be pushovers. Besides, Duke Camari is undefeated. I bet we’ll never even get to fight them.”
The sergeant shushed them quite suddenly, and the felt a terrible prickly sensation as the beat of iron-shod feet could be heard in the distance. Crows always gathered over battlefields, but these ones were sitting well away, silent watchers. Aron gulped, and wiped the sweat from his brow. In the distance, the Dunholt came.
Rank upon rank of men in fully concealing, identical black armor in head to toe. They looked almost hewn from solid iron, colorless and symbol-free except for decorative banners and tabards, and the grisly war-trophies that were in abundance. The only ones who appeared even nearly human were the enemy officers, on horseback and adorned in personal trophies and tokens. The Cairn-Camari officers were convening with them now, discussing terms before the battle.
After an eternity, the officers seemed finished, and the Duke of Camari lowered the flag of Cairn-Camari and lifted a white flag in it’s place - it would be a few moments before Aron understood it’s significance.
“Surrender?” he said, in disbelief “Surrender? We came all this way, with all our weapons and all the promises of fighting just to... just to surrender!?”
The old man with the pipe and beard slowly puffed away, and said “You can call it surrender if you want, young one, but trust me when I say this - whatever deal they just struck saved every one of our lives.”
Aron wasn’t sure at the time, but looking back on the ranks of black-armored men for as far as the eye could see, he knew the old man was right. Cairn-Camari had been the last of six nations seized by the invading Dunholt armies from the sea, it was a battle they had lost before Aron had even known they were at war.
He sighed, and replaced the comb and mirror. That was then. Aron donned his uniform and equipment, the chain-mail that had become familiar to him and the tattered tabard of the Cairn-Camari army. This was now.
Down the stairs, through the cold stone halls of the blockhouse, Aron dragged his feet towards the main entrance. On the way he gave a gentle kick to old sergeant John Blyth, the same old, bearded man who’d stood and looked out at the battle already lost on the fields outside Cairn Stone. The old sergeant snorted, and woke from his chair by the fireplace.
“Come on, wake up.” said Aron, wearily “We’ve got roll-call in ten minutes, and the runner from Sycamore’s expected today.”
“I was up, I’ll have you know.” said the old man, stretching and stifling a yawn “Just resting my eyes for a moment, was all. Captain you may be, but I’ll be damned if I let you get away with more than one kick a day. Sir.”
Aron smiled, and chuckled at the weary sergeant “I know, I know - it was all just to antagonize you, part of the scheme young people today have to show less respect to our elders. But if we can set personal matters aside, you’re the only one here who can play a bugle.”
“I know, I know, quiet down.” John grumbled his way over to the fire, and lifted a bubbling concoction from over it - he poured a molten cup of coffee for himself, and offered one to Aron, who politely turned it down. Cup in hand, the sergeant then shuffled to the door with the captain in tow, and finally ended up outside the blockhouse.
“Bloody cold day, today.” grumbled John “And they call this summer, do they? Your generation? Bah, don’t know what summer’s all about. Oh well, nothing we can do about that.” Brittle, weary old form that he was, John still lifted the bugle to his lips, and with a sharp whistle played the loud, grating morning roll-call. Aron had to cover his ears until the old man was finished, and put the bugle safely back on the ground again.
“Finished?” he asked, and John just grumbled in response. “All right. Now we just wait for the troops to fall in. Today could be important.”
“I can see that, you almost shaved for it.”
Aron affectionately rubbed the thin stubble around his chin “I guess some people don’t understand the finer things in life. Well-groomed stubble is considered a plus these days, John.”
“Really? I sometimes wonder who fills your young mind up with such rot.”
Slowly, one at a time, the men and women of Cairn-Camari Unit 118 turned out. Corporal Chebon dragged along last, the lanky man with the hair that didn’t just flaunt regulation, it taunted them. “Why you gotta wake us up so early today, sir? It’s not like the hills are on fire or something. I was having a hell of a dream, too.”
“Enough of that, corporal.” said Aron in clipped, officious tones. “Today we’ve got to look at least somewhat presentable, there’s a runner from Sycamore with orders from the Dunholt ‘Provisional Command’, and - Are we all awake yet, private Montague?”
A small man with a bushy brown mustache suddenly straightened right up, his eyes shaded from sight by the visor of his helmet, and indeed all that could be seen between the mustache and the rim of the helmet was a bulbous nose. “Sir, yes sir! Awake and accounted for, sir! Present! Ready and waiting!”
“...Right, well, good man.” said Aron, who crossed his arms before him and looked at the fine body of men and women he commanded - most younger than he was, the rest graying and complaining about the weather. The yellow uniform of the Camari army to be worn over the armor was tattered on every single one of them, and the heraldic stag had faded off most. Helmets were dented, faces were unwashed and grumpy, in all the effect was like someone had taken a perfectly good military unit and dragged it through some mud and nettles backwards for thirty minutes - and they hadn’t even started yet.
He sighed “Oh well. Might as well make the best of it. Try and hold your stance until the messenger’s out of sight, eh? We might get one of those by-the-book types and be trapped in a lecture for the rest of the day.”
“Why do we even serve the Dunholt, anyways?” grumbled Chebon to Montague. Though Chebon was a higher rank, the older man just ruffled his mustache in frustration at the short memories of youth.
“We serve them, corporal, because we lost the war - just like all the six nations did. Our mighty army and our proud Duke were usurped by the foul Dunholt invaders, so now we are at their mercy. We’re lucky they even let us soldiers remain after they won, or maybe they haven’t got enough men of their own from across the sea to replace us.”
“Geeze, when did all that happen?”
“What? It’s been all over the place for years now! How could you have missed the terrible ravaging of our beloved country?”
“I dunno...” said Chebon “I’ve been busy... Do you know how much a good lute costs? I don’t see how the Dunholt have much to do with that.”
There was a little more grumbling ranks, but Aron silenced them at the sound of approaching hoof-falls.
A man - we can only assume - totally bedecked in black metal armor without symbol or marking rode an equally dark steed over the hills and rocks of the valley. The only sound was the clop of the horse’s hooves on the ground, the armored man simply remained motionless and silent. As they approached Aron could feel the nervous intake of breath from the soldiers behind him, and he was compelled to size up the approaching Dunholt messenger. Did they never take off those damn helmets?
The rider pulled up next to Aron and glared down at him from behind the concealing visor. The captain just returned the glare, until finally the messenger broke eye-contact and reached into a black leather saddlebag. With little ceremony, the rider shoved a rolled-up parchment sealed with the black-wax seal of the Dunholt to Aron, and wordlessly he spurred his mount away.
“Bet I could hit him from here with my hunting bow and they’d be none the wiser...” muttered John, shuffling from foot to foot as they watched him ride away.
Aron just shook his head dismissively, saying “Until they send a whole company our way to find out. They just don’t give up.” Aron unrolled the parchment.
“Well!” he said “This is some good news, at least. We’ve been ordered to relocate to Sycamore and garrison up for a week or two. Pack your things, everyone, we’re going to town in an hour.”
With some cheers, the soldiers broke formation and pushed back into the blockhouse to gather their gear together. Aron weighed the letter in his hand for a moment longer as he read again the rest of his orders, before crumpling it in his fist. The nerve of the Dunholt commander! Best not to tell the troops just why they were being relocated yet, bad news made for longer walks, and town was still a good day away.
***
Aron’s world is a world of adventure and magic, or at least, it once was. Alone on the island continent of Nordren, six nations have lived side by side for centuries, ever since the original settlers came from across the sea. At times they have warred, at other times they have traded, but the six nations of Cairn-Camari, Oralia, Narston, Azguard, Vernland, and Current have always been the constants around which their world turned.
All this changed, when - five years ago - invaders calling themselves the Dunholt took the continent by storm, their brutal warriors steam-rolling over each of the six nations in turn. This conquering force dragged the nations of Nordren together into the Dunholt Empire, sending down draconian laws and reaping a great deal of the riches. For a time, the Empire was chaotic as it became the plaything of Dunholt warlords.
However, the new empire soon stabilized after the Dunholt leader Cain decided that the Dunholt lacked the forces or the power to hold all six of the nations together, and so instead kept the nations, making them all dependant states and freeing up the majority of the Dunholt forces to maintain control of Current - the capital of this new Empire. Collaborationist governments were instated with Dunholt rulers over the other five nations, and soon, people settled into the new order that had taken hold of Nordren. In time, it even began to bring prosperity and relief, but always under the oppressive and alien control of the Dunholt.
Aron lived in Cairn-Camari, the smallest of the nations on Nordren, a tough country made up of valleys and mountains in the warm, dry south. They were a tough people, with a tough lifestyle that involved a lot of mining and farming, and as such built tough little towns and keeps isolated by the harsh terrain. Despite all this carefully cultured toughness, they fell to the Dunholt quickly, for although individually tough Cairn-Camari was still a small country and could only field a small army. The Duke had been left in charge, but under a ‘Provisional Government’ of Dunholt ‘advisors’ from their fortress in Current. For all practical purposes, Cairn-Camari was conquered.
Aron reflected on all this as they trudged over the grasslands on the way to Sycamore, where the road had become overgrown. Behind him marched his soldiers - hardly an army. Blockhouse 118 was just enough for the captain and those under his command, and it wasn’t built for many.
Sergeant John was the most experienced, and his grey hair commanded instant respect in a nation where life was a daily struggle against the elements - as well as instant despair as he went into a rambling story about the past. Then there was corporal Chebon, an amateur bard and musician who only joined the army because in times of peace it was an easy three meals a day. Private Montague was dangerously patriotic for a man Aron had to lean down to look in the eye. Most of the others weren’t much better either. Aron had thirty-five troops, and he really wouldn’t trust any of them with a country stroll, let alone military activity.
He suddenly heard a strumming of lute strings. Aron sighed - as if to prove his point, Chebon held up the ranks for a moment as he adjusted the lute slung over his shoulder. Aron considered fighting it, but found he just couldn’t be bothered. Who knows, if he actually learnt how to play it might make the trip go faster.
“Okay...” said Chebon “I think I’ve got it this time. How’s this? I gave my love a cherry that had no stone.”
“What would a cherry be doing with a rock, sir?” said private Clyde, following behind the musician in training.
“No, private, the stone is the middle bit of the cherry - y’know, the bit you don’t eat?”
“I thought that was a pit, sir?”
“Nah” said private Knox “That’s peaches you’re thinking of. Peaches have pits, Cherries have stones, apples have cores.”
“Can’t trust that foreign fruit.” said Montague, darkly “No good for you, sir! Full of foreign things.”
“You can get peaches here in Cairn-Camari, Montague.” said Knox with an elaborate eye-roll.
“Sure, imported peaches.” he spat, as if the word was dirty in his mouth “Where some dago’s been touching it and filling it full of exotic diseases.”
The conversation of the merits of large-scale agricultural imports continued in the background of Aron’s hearing, as he kept walking in the front of the unit. He guessed he shouldn’t complain - there were worse jobs in the army, for sure. Still, in a way, Aron wished just for once, he felt like a real captain amongst his troops instead of the arbiter for when the fruit-discussion reaches an impasse.
Sergeant John caught Aron up as they walked, and said “You’re a little quiet this morning. Anything on your mind?”
Aron looked up, weighing wether he should tell his old friend and mentor. Finally, he sighed, and nodded his head “We’re not being moved to Sycamore for our good health. The Provisional Command wants us to ‘keep the peace’ while a preacher is in town.”
“A bit of a long way for one of their number to come.” John seemed a little unsure of this news, and said “Well, they’re a quiet lot, so what trouble is one preacher?”
“Lots, if he gets the people riled up.” whispered Aron, who looked to make sure none of his troops were listening in “Apparently he’s a bit of a rabble-rouser, been up and down the countryside saying the Dunholt are a menace. If he gets people worked up, it’s us who will have to put down the riot, and I just don’t trust this lot in that sort of situation. I don’t even want to stop people from rising up and throwing out the Dunholt.”
“Except it’s not some world-wide uprising, is it, sir?” said John, with the practiced voice of experience “I’ve seen a few riots in my time. Don’t worry, sir, all we have to do is stand in a line for a while, let the crowd shout themselves horse, then we go home. Maybe arrest the preacher if things get out of hand, that should quiet them down.”
Aron nodded glumly “Sure...”
The walk to town continued along the verdant hills of the valley, before the unit passed through an army checkpoint guarding a path between one of the mountain walls that sliced up Cairn-Camari. Aron nodded to the old pensioners who spent their days stamping documents and looking out on the valley, before leading his troops past their little hut. Would he end up there one day, in a dilapidated shack watching the younger soldiers march by? Or maybe like John, too old for promotion but forever too young to give up the military life?
It was as he swilled these thoughts around that they crested the mountain’s path, and looked across the next valley to where Sycamore was nestled - in amongst glades of its’ namesake tree, dotting the landscape and lining a river that cut swiftly through the space between the mountains.
“Quite the sight...” said Chebon, who began to unsling his lute.
“Enough of that!” Bellowed the unit’s second sergeant, rushing forwards from the rear “I’ve had enough of your shrieking, corporal. This is a military outfit, and we should act like it.” With that, Sergeant Asnabar saluted to captain Aron, who nodded. “Right! Unit! We will march in two columns into Sycamore on the double! Keep in line! Eyes forwards!”
“He really does get right into it, doesn’t he?” murmured John to Aron, as the two looked on to the hapless soldiers shouted about by the craggy, middle-aged Asnabar. Aron nodded, and chuckled.
The unit was shouted at the rest of the way, which kept things nice and orderly as they entered the town.
***
Sycamore was a little valley town, in a stretch of green between two lines of mountains. The town was an island of peace and comfort in the harsh, unforgiving environment of Cairn Camari, with stone buildings and thatched roofs lining the cobble-stone streets. A few thousand people lived in and around the town, but it was certainly no urban core. In fact, Aron’s arrival with his small unit of soldiers was the second biggest thing to happen in Sycamore for weeks.
It was because of the first thing that they were here.
“Seems awfully quiet...” muttered John as the soldiers walked under a stone arch marking the entrance to town. “You’d think everyone would be out on a day like this.”
“You’re right...” said Aron, uneasily. A minute later, they began to hear the sounds of a crowd. Feeling anxious, Aron gestured for the troops to pick up the pace.
They moved quickly through the stone arch that marked the entrance to the town square. Inside, it seemed everyone had turned out to where an overturned cart in the middle of the stone square sat. The crowd appeared to have all the qualities of the people of Sycamore - they were the farmers, the builders, the workers, even the town elders, dressed in everyday attire of yellow and brown, looking up at a figure on top of the overturned cart.
The man on top of the cart wasn’t, in fact, a man. It was taller, had grey skin, and had a somewhat rubbery look. It wore a plain white robe, and was speaking passionately in a gruff, guttural accent. Aron groaned “An Azguard! What is he doing so far south?”
Azguards were a near-human race that lived in the mountain nation also called Azguard. They almost never came down from the mountains, their largest appearance up to now had been when their army was defeated by the Dunholt. Aron had heard of them, but hadn’t seen many in person, he merely knew their reputation for being isolationist and intensely spiritual.
As they approached, the Azguards’ words became audible “...So only if the six stand together as one, shall there ever be a return to our former dignity, and society. The Dunholt are efficient, true, and they have brought ‘peace’ - but it is a false peace, made not by solving conflicts or bringing understanding, merely by burying the past, by...”
Unfortunately, this was why they were here. He brought out the crumpled note, and began to clear his throat. Behind him, his troops uneasily began to fan out.
It was then that the Azguard spotted Aron, and in a subtle move shifted gears. Before the crowd noticed the soldiers, he said “And so I finish my speech for today. I thank you all for listening, and bid you all return again for the last of my preaching tomorrow. It appears we have guests from away! I hope you all remember to greet them warmly.” With that, the gangly creature dropped off the back of the cart, straightened up, and politely departed.
Aron relaxed, and gestured for his men to stand down as the crowd dispersed. They got some funny looks, but for the most part the townspeople didn’t seem too concerned with the arrival of the soldiers, instead discussing in hushed tones the content of the speech they had just heard.
It unnerved Aron, seeing people talking like that - quietly, seriously, intensely, to the point that the whole crowd sounded like a low hum.
“...Sergeant?” said Aron, still distracted “Dismiss the soldiers for a few hours leave, we’ll regroup at six at the local blockhouse, all right?”
“Would that be sergeant Asnabar or myself who should give the order to be dismissed, sir?” Asked John, patiently.
“Hm?” Aron snapped out of his thoughts, and said “Oh... yes, John. Give the order, I have to meet the local governor.”
“Right you are sir.” said John, smiling, before turning to address the whole unit. “All right, everyone! You are dismissed, to regroup at the local blockhouse by no later than six tonight, got it? Use the sundial if you can’t guess the time.”
Glad to be free after their earlier march, the soldiers scattered in all directions, leaving their captain drifting in and out of thought. John paused next to Aron and said “Are you sure you’re all right, sir?”
“Yeah... just got a few things to think about, John. Don’t worry about me, you go relax.”
“Well, don’t worry too much, sir. I’ll keep an eye out on the troops - I doubt they’ll get into much trouble today anyways.”
“Thanks.” Aron straightened his helmet with a flourishing gesture, and said “Now to get down to business.”
***
“Come in, come in!” The huge, sweaty face of Mr. Gregario almost shone bright enough to light up the little store. It had once been a much larger store, before Mr. Gregario had filled it with all manner of fruit, vegetables, and questionably edible plant-like things. Nevertheless, the smell was inviting - that of the fruits and vegetables, not the musk of Mr. Gregario - and Aron returned his smile affectionately.
“Ah, Mr. captain, back on a special mission?” said Mr. Gregario, “Then you simply must take some of my new Vernland beans, they’re fresh as-”
“No, no, Mr. Gregario.” said Aron, who couldn’t help but smile. “Just the usual, a few apples. I could use something to snack on after the trip here.”
“Yes, yes, a long walk.” the shopkeeper replied, as he collected apples from a hanging basket. “A walk so far would make you thirsty. Are you sure you don’t want to buy some oranges? They are all fresh today, and for you, I’ll make a special offer-”
“No thanks, Mr. G. The apples will do just fine.” He took a coin from a belt pouch and flicked it to Mr. Gregario. Picking up one of the apples, he bit into it and said through a full mouth “So, I’ve been called back to town to deal with some sort of local emergency. You wouldn’t happen to know much about it, would you?”
Mr. Gregario showed a momentary pause, but recovered quickly “I don’t know about that, but if someone doesn’t start buying these peaches, that’d be an emergency! Tell those soldiers of yours, they’re always welcome here! Special rates for people serving Cairn Cam-”
“You mean the Dunholt Provisional Government?”
Again, Mr. Gregario had to catch himself “Well... yes... that too. Special rates! Tell your friends!”
Aron laughed, and said “You charge everyone ‘special rates’, Gregario. I’m starting to suspect something.”
“Really?” Mr. Gregario seemed a little uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking “Well... my rates are special because I always offer such good deals! Go ahead, take another apple on the house.”
Aron chuckled, and threw an apple core in the trash “No thanks. I gotta go, Gregario. Anything going on tonight?”
“Um, like what?”
“You know, anything going on tonight? At the bar, or socially - something fun to pass time, you know? An event, maybe?”
“Not tonight, no.” Mr. Gregario said, louder than he needed to. “No, tonight’s going to be a slow night, I believe. Well, I don’t want to keep you from your important business! Remember my special rates!”
“Sure, Mr. G” said Aron, who walked off chuckling. Once Mr. Gregarion was sure he was gone, he squeezed through a narrow space between shelves of fruit.
There, he unlocked a door concealed by a hanging bag of bananas. He opened the door, and behind it was a grey stone room barely lit by a single candle on a spindly table. Sitting at the table was a stern-looking young woman with brown hair held back in a braid, as well as a towering profile half-concealed by shadow.
Gregario mopped his sweaty brow with the back of his sleeve, “We might have a problem...”
***
“What’s the problem?” said John. He rocked gently back and forth in his old chair, on the little stretch of patio afforded to the blockhouse. Private Elza and private Chris were tending his small garden, but he was distracted from his supervising role by corporal Yuki, who held a local boy by the ear in her vicelike grip.
“This little parasite’s been trying to break into the blockhouse’s locker room.” she snapped, thrusting the offender forwards. “I caught him trying to bend window frame with a crowbar.”
John leaned forwards. His face was a mask of deepest seriousness. “Is this true, young man?”
“‘s” squeaked the boy, and Yuki gave another tug on his ear. “Yes! I was, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay at all!” Yuki gave him a glare. “What was it you were trying to steal?”
“Uh...” now the boy seemed very reluctant, and even another ear tug yielded little results “Not s’posed to say.”
“I could feed you a potion that’d turn you purple your hair green for a week, not to mention make you-”
“Er... I don’t think that’ll be totally necessary.” said John. He seemed a little queasy, in fact. “Listen, young Finneus, I happen to know your mum, so we’ll forget this incident and you go straight home. I won’t tell her this time, but so help me if you try again...” He was already scurrying off. Yuki seemed unsatisfied.
“You’re not the sort to be lenient, John - and he didn’t even tell us what he was trying to steal!”
“Well, you know how it is sometimes, right? Kids are kids, better we leave ‘em be for now. It’s not like he was doing something absolutely awful. Compared to some of the things people get up to these days? Anyways, you like fiddling with things, why not go reinforce that window?”
Yuki shrugged, “Well, all right, but I can’t imagine what’d be worse than stealing from the army.”
***
“I gave my love a cherry, that had no stone...” Chebon strummed slowly on his lute, singing his latest hit to a tavern crowd of admirers.
“How does he do it?” Said corporal Scott, as he scratched his bald head. A man built large, he sported a thick brown beard to go with his lack of hair. “Th’ man makes up a song about... about fruit, and he’s got women all over him, batting their eyes and sayin’ ‘Oh, you like music, do you?’” He drank down an entire tankard of ale, wiping the foam on his sleeve “I tell you, it’s disgusting.”
“Yes, a little,” said private Alice. A red-headed girl with stern features, she seemed to be trying to lean away from the entire bar at once. “We’re given napkins for a reason, Scott.”
Sourly, Scott turned and said to Montague, who was also sitting with them “Can you believe this girl, Monty? We’re out here, trying to have a good time while we’re still in town, and she’s gotta start complaining about my drinking. I mean, be fair.”
“She is being fair, sir - you’re getting cheap beer all over your official army uniform! That’s a disgrace to the nation, sir,” Montague pointed his bulbous nose in the air, and sniffed in clear disdain for the corporal’s lack of ettiquete. “The Duke’s Rules of Warfare specify that all uniforms should be clean and well-maintained whenever possible.”
“Well, s’not possible when yer havin’ a drink,” said Scott, who shakily put down his tankard. A general silence fell over the three soldiers, before Scott said “So what you suppose the cap’n is up to, anyways? Yea’d think he’d be in here with us soldiers, getting piss-drunk.”
“Captain Aron’s a busy - if decidedly reluctant - man,” said Alice, who sipped tentatively at her drink. “I imagine he’s gone off to attend to whatever business was worth calling us into town.”
“It’s quite obvious, sir, that we’ve been called in to keep an eye on that Azguard,” said Montague, with an air of superiority quickly summoned when taking about ‘foreign types’. “They’re shifty, Azguards. Living their whole lives in the mountains, doing who-knows-what. Everyone knows that no civilized people live in mountains, they live in cities, like us.”
“Yer a right paragon of civilization, you,” Scott said, while rolling his eyes. “Let’s just relax and enjoy tha drinks.”
“You can, if you want,” said a matronly voice behind them. A large woman of middle age, whose red dress didn’t offset her size so much as reinforce her presence - every ounce of her shouted ‘I am someone’s mother’, even down to the painted nails. “Montague! Where have you been? Your sister always takes the time to visit me - every week, I might add.”
Montague’s generally stubborn disposition melted into pale fright “B-but mum! She works in the fish market! I’m stationed out as far as-”
“That’s no excuse, you know. I could drop down dead tomorrow and you wouldn’t care at all, I’ll wager! Wouldn’t even show up for the funeral. Now come along home, it’s almost dinner,” Montague mumbled something, and his mother gave him a dark look “What was that, young man?”
“y’s mum.”
“That’s better.”
“Have a fine evenin’ Mrs. Brewer.” said Scott, smiling as the helpless corporal was dragged away. He then turned back to Alice, and said “The cap’n might be a bit of a depressed bugger at times, but he knows what he’s doing.”
***
I have no idea what I’m doing. Thought Aron as he stood outside Sycamore’s town hall. It was a grand old building, built sturdily out of stone and thick trunks of local sycamore wood. Outside, two local city guards stood to attention, whereas inside awaited the Dunholt governor, and likely an entourage of assistants.
Steadying his nerves, Aron took the steps two at a time, entering via the wooden double doors. The doors were the really old kind, three times bigger than normal that were so hard to open that people usually opened them once then left them open the rest of the day. Once inside, he made his way quickly through the lobby. The building wasn’t too big on the inside, and after moving around the tight formation of desks that dominated the center of the hall he found the door he was looking for, and entered the presence of the governor.
“Ah... Aron, is it?” The voice was crisp, and emotionless. Governor Julius wore a lightweight suit of chainmail armor, mad the same tone of darkness as the larger foot soldiers. His face was pale, in contrast to this, as well as long and worn, yet there was not a hint of weakness in his eyes. “I trust our message was adequate to explain the situation? The Dunholt provisional government of Cairn Camari requires your immediate action to detain the Azguard preacher that has taken residence in Sycamore. He is a menace to the population, spreading lies and creating trouble where there was none before.”
“Yes, sir,” said Aron, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. The room was mostly empty beyond a desk and some paperwork, as well as the chair the governor sat in. The only object of note was a sword mounted on the wall behind him, next to a window.
“Lethal force is approved, although it would be preferred if he is returned alive - governor Rogan in Cairn Stone has expressed interest in why an Azguard would come this far south. I understand the people of Sycamore have taken a liking to him, so you are to carry out your orders tonight.”
Aron paused, and cautiously said “Uh... sir, at night, he would technically be committing no crime. Shouldn’t we wait until morning, when he tries to speak again, and arrest him then?”
“What, in front of an entire crowd? Give him another chance to voice his slanderous opinions?” said Julius, who rose slowly to his feet. “No, this situation needs to be nipped in the bud. I trust your loyalties in this matter are not confused?”
After a pause just barely noticeable, but still noticed by both of them, Aron said “There is no confusion at all, sir.”
“Good.” said the governor, who turned away to look out the window “Now get out of my sight.”
I bet I could hit him from here and they’d be none the wiser. He thought, griping the hilt of his sword. That is, until I set foot out of this office. They just don’t give up. Aron let go of the sword, and sighed.
Quietly, and with no further resistance, he left the governor to his thoughts.
***
“I mean, can you believe that guy?” said Aron, trying very carefully to refill his mug with his shaking hands. “Why don’t they ever come out and say it? There aren’t any rules, we just do what they say. This isn’t a country any more - hell, even a dictatorship has laws. This is... this is...”
“A mess?” suggested Chebon. The amateur musician was currently busy balancing one of his giggling fans on his lap, but he spared a glance to his friend and captain across the bar counter. “You have to learn to relax, man, or one of these days you’ll do something stupid and wake up sans head.”
“Yeah, yeah...” mumbled Aron, despondently. He took another swig of the cheap ale that the local tavern offered.
“Still, it’s not all bad.” John offered “At least this way, there’s less chance of that Azguard making a scene. Less of a chance anyone’ll get hurt.”
“Well... yeah... maybe.” said Aron, as he refilled his drink - spilling some beer when his vision convinced him he was in fact trying to fill two mugs “But it’s not right. Just... just dragging someone out like that. In the night, like we’re ashamed.”
“Are you?” said John, sitting up on his bar stool with distinct interest.
“Huh? Am I what?” Aron’s speech was becoming slurred.
“Are you ashamed about dragging someone out for committing no crime?”
Aron nodded slowly as the world spun “Yeah... yeah... that’s not right. S’not what I signed up fer...”
Slowly, his head nodded forwards, and finally went thump against the counter. John patted the snoring captain on the shoulder, and murmured “I know, none of us did.”
“Hey, should he be sleeping?” said Chebon, as he managed to pull his face away briefly from his (still giggling) fan. “I mean, it’s already nightfall. If he sleeps through the job then-”
“You let your old sergeant worry about that, corporal.” said John “Don’t worry, you don’t become a military man without learning a trick or two about passing the buck. You have a nice night.”
Grinning, Chebon said “Always do.” before turning his attention to the girl on his lap.
John got up, and left Aron to sleep by the candlelight of the bar, while the old sergeant stepped outside into the cool winds of night.
* **
“Nnnn...” Aron’s eyes fluttered open - which he instantly regretted, as harsh daylight blinded him. He groaned, and slowly slid off his barstool. The tavern was empty, which was good, as Aron struggled not to vomit last night’s drinks.
What a way to start the day.
Wait... day?
“Oh hell.” Said Aron, as he stumbled to get off the floor. Maybe there was still time. Maybe it wasn’t as early as he thought. If he could just find John then -
Actually, now that he took a look around... where was everyone? True, most taverns and bars aren’t known for being active in the morning, but even the street outside was quiet as the grave.
Without wasting a moment, Aron shook his disorientation and rushed out the door. He knew in the back of his mind what would be going on, but still hoped against hope that somehow everyone was out to pick up groceries or something. If the Azguard had started another speech, he was as good as dead.
Dashing down cobblestone roads, straightening his uniform, and tightening his belt, he realized he wasn’t even wearing his armour - that was back in the blockhouse. The blockhouse! He’d forgotten to meet the troops there at six! “This is going to be a long day.” he muttered, as he rounded a bend towards the town square.
He rushed under the arch, but to his surprise, found nothing going on. The upturned cart was gone, the crowd hadn’t returned, in fact the square was entirely empty. Aron’s sense of anxiety only deepened. It was starting to feel as if the whole town was deserted.
Aron looked around, and spotted John rushing towards him from the other side of the square. The captain let out a sigh of relief “Perfect timing, sergeant, I was afraid something had gone wrong.”
“Sir! Something has gone wrong!” It was then that Aron noticed John was huffing and puffing under a crested visor, thick metal shoulder guards, and extra chainmail draped all over. He caught up to Aron, only to double over and gasp for breath. “It’s... It’s that Azguard guy. He... *wheeze*... he told the townsfolk to... *gasp* to rise up. Most are barricaded in the town hall after they threw out the governor.”
“They threw him out?!” exclaimed Aron, who grabbed John by the shoulders and yanked him back into a standing position. “John - what did they do with him? Where did the Dunholt go?”
“He’s... *wheeze*... outside the town hall. He ordered our troops to surround it and hasn’t done anything since. I got permission to find you - Aron, we have to do something before this gets out of hand.”
It already was. Aron paled at the thought of what sort of punishment the Dunholt would bring against their town. Remote as it was, the Dunholt were known for letting no act of dissent go, having gone so far as to put whole villages to the sword to leave a clear example to any who would question their ownership of the land.
He grabbed John’s arm, and pulled him up again before dashing off in the direction of the town hall, his heavy boots clopping along the cobblestones and echoing off barricaded homes. The tower top of the town hall was now visible, with a tattered yellow Cairn Camari flag proudly flying. The silence was gradually broken as the sound of footfalls and yelling grew louder, until finally he passed into the street in front of the town hall’s big sycamore doors.
Already, he could see barrels, boxes, and the upturned cart had been arrayed as a crude barricade for the troops of blockhouse 118, which squatted unceremoniously behind the barrier. The townsfolk weren’t shooting arrows, but as he got closer Aron could see people jeering from windows and shaking their fists in the air.
As if it couldn’t get any worse, when he approached, Aron saw the barely restrained figure of Dunholt governor Julius and his retinue standing behind the barricade.
“Ah, excellent work captain.” he said with barely contained sarcasm. “I’m sorry, perhaps I wasn’t clear enough in my instruction. You see, when I said tonight, I assumed you’d know that I meant the night that just recently ended. I thought I was clear, and yet somehow this morning, instead of having that... that insurgent cast at my feet, I was instead evicted from my office by a mob he’d whipped into a frenzy.
“I was lucky - and by extension, so were you - to escape with my life, considering his followers were brandishing axes and pitchforks. What the hell are pitchforks doing in a town, anyways? Aren’t those a farm instrument?”
“They’re... uh...” Aron tried to get a handle on the situation, and steadied himself. “They’re for unloading the wagons at the market, sir. I used to help with that when I-”
“Save me your pathetic life’s story, captain, and help me bring this situation under control immediately. The Dunholt don’t tolerate failure and right now that includes both of us. Get your men sorted on the double.”
“Right you are, sir.” said Aron, who let out a sigh of relief and turned to his troops. “All right, headcount! Are we all here?”
“Everyone, sir, all thirty-five! Even Chebon!” shouted back sergeant Asnabar.
“Good.” John brought over his combat gear footlocker, from which Aron retrieved his gauntlets and pulled them on. “What about weapons? Are we equipped?”
“Clubs and shields, sir.” said John “We’ve also checked for swords - just as a last resort.”
Aron paused as he strapped the shoulder guard in place, and nodded. “A last resort.”
Finally, he was armed and equipped. He turned back to the governor, and said “Your orders, sir?”
“We’re going to bring this rabble under control. An example must be made before it escalates further.” he said firmly. “You have bows and arrows, correct? That town hall is made of wood. Light the arrows and rain fire on it, then block the doors until I say otherwise.”
Aron’s face was passive, as he processed this. Finally, he said “Sir... They’re not even firing at us yet. They’re not even-”
“You will follow your orders, or you will be executed!” shouted the governor, anger spilling over his control. He drew a sword that seemed chiseled from ice and stabbed it into the ground, where frost quickly formed. “I have no patience for you or your kind! This sort of defiance will get us all killed, nevermind the fools in the town hall. Fetch your bows and arrows immediately.”
Aron’s face was pale and stiff as he turned away from the governor and back to his troops. In a subdued tone, he said “John... do we have bows and arrows?”
The outburst had not gone unheard, and every soldier was now glancing sideways and straining an ear to hear over the din of the rioters. John gulped, and said “Aron, you’re not really going-”
“Get the bows, John.”
With a look of disbelief, John wandered away. Aron looked at his feet. He could feel his face turn red with shame as governor Julius stood next to him. “You must understand, captain - anyone who stands against the Dunholt will be destroyed. The only option for us is to be the ones to put down this uprising, to prove we had no part in it. Your soldiers will be spared.”
The only sound was the jeering and chants coming from the town hall. Some of them were clear enough to hear now, as more chanters took them up. “Down with Dunholt!” “Cairn!” and “Guv’ner Julius issa bastid” were popular, although the last one was only chanted by Finneus and his friends.
“Is my Monty out there?” a shrill, female voice cut through the other voices. “If he doesn’t stand down this instant, I’m going to be very upset with him!”
Private Montague groaned. “That’s my mother, sir. Sorry, sir, I’ll try and keep a low profile.”
Think, Aron. There’s got to be a solution - you can’t fire on a building full of your friends and neighbors. On the other hand, if you don’t, the Dunholt will turn up and then everyone’s going to die. He hadn’t tried negotiating with the mob yet - maybe they could be convinced to disperse? He nodded to Asnabar, and straddled the barricade.
“People of Sycamore!” he shouted above their yells, “As captain of the Cairn-Camari Blockhouse 118 unit, I hearby give the order to disperse!” He was going red in the face, this time not from shame, but from the effort to be heard. Someone threw an orange. “Is Mr. Gregario in there with you?!” He added, angrily. Another orange was thrown in response - this one hit his helmet in an embarrassing splat.
“I’m warning you for the last time!” He still didn’t want to shoot them, but was tempted to start throwing the fruit back. “If you don’t disperse, we’ll be forced to take drastic action before the Dunholt get-”
He didn’t even know Mr. Gregario had watermelons. The world went temporarily black.
***
Aron recovered soon after, behind the barricade. So much for that plan. Chebon was squatting to one side, and shook his head as the captain woke up. “Smooth move, sir.” Aron noticed the bow.
“Did we-?”
“No, not yet. John got back with the bows, but managed to stall by ‘forgetting’ the arrows. Julius is pissed, but we’ve still got time.” Chebon glanced over the barricade, and added “After you got hit by the watermelon, the mob got pretty nervous and more or less shut up. I think the Azguard guy calmed them down.”
Aron sat up, and put his helmet back on. Just over a crate, he could see the big rectangular structure with its’ stone tower, the Cairn-Camari flag still flew proudly. The windows were long, dusty affairs that were hard to see through when closed, so he could only guess the mob still occupied the building. Aron sighed, and wished John were near enough to ask for advice. When it came down to it, he wasn’t all that tactical.
“All right... wait... what’s that?” The large double-doors were slowly pushed open from the inside, as a group of the townspeople inside made way for the Azguard preacher. Aron took the chance to get a better look at him than he had the first time on top of the cart.
His skin was grey, and his face was long and angular - where his nose should have been, there were slits. Not only that, but he was easily head and shoulders taller than even the tallest human, although his arms hung past his waist. All in all, he gave the appearance of a gangly, primitive creature, if not for the humble white robe he was wrapped in, and the intricate braids of black hair. The townspeople showed great respect as he left the doorway to the town hall, and descended the steps.
“Now!” shouted Julius “Now! Captain, order your men to seize that monster and storm the building. They won’t be able to close those ridiculous doors in time!”
Thinking fast, Aron said “Everyone knows Azguards have all sorts of weird claws and fangs, plus, the townsfolk outnumber us loads to one. We can wait for the arrows.” This got him a few cold looks from his own troops in earshot, but it seemed to calm Julius, so Aron approached the edge of the barricade.
“What is it you want?” He called out to the Azguard.
He simply bowed, and said “My name is Do’Lash. I have asked for the confidence of the people of Sycamore, and they have obliged me. You do not look like Dunholt yourselves, you seem like people of Cairn-Camari and Sycamore, like these people. Might I ask who you are?”
Julius seemed intent to speak on behalf of the unit, but Aron jumped the barricade to speak to Do’Lash - a move Julius didn’t feel like risking himself. “I’m Aron, captain of the Cairn Camari Blockhouse unit 118.”
“So you are one of the stag people, as well?” Do’Lash pointed to the faded brown stag on Aron’s tabard. “Then why do you threaten your own people?”
“What? Well, why are you endangering my people? If you wanted to whip up a revolt, why come all the way to my country?”
Do’Lash seemed to ignore the question, and instead approached Aron. He could hear the intake of breath behind him, and he involuntarily tensed as the shadow of the grey giant fell on him “Your people do not like the Dunholt, Aron. They do not like the extortion, the beatings, the cruelty, the suppression of culture, and art, and music. They do not like being told how to live and how to think, what to do and who to become. I did not plant the seeds of revolt, I merely nourished their spirits, I spoke about what they already knew.”
“Look, Dolly, or whatever your name is - that’s great and all, people don’t like the Dunholt, but the thing is if the Dunholt army hears about this and deploys a unit, they’re going to be massacred, you get me? We need to put a stop to this right now.”
“Really? Tell me, what are the orders of the inspired tactician, Julian? I imagine his current plan is for you to open fire on us?” Aron’s surprised blink answered Do’Lash, and he continued, “Your people are already facing massacre, either at the hands of their own soldiers, or of their conquerors in a day or two-”
“Wait, then why did you even whip up a riot in the first place?” Aron was starting to lose patience, as well as a growing sense of fear that John might have come back with the arrows. “If you knew the instant it started, it’d be cut down, why-”
“As I said, Aron, I did not plant the seeds of revolt. They can be found all across the continent, in all of the six nations, waiting for someone to awaken them. However, now is not the time to speak of such things. What matters now, captain, is that you have a choice. I see your esteemed sergeant John has returned with the ammunition, which means that Julius will soon give the order to fire.
“You may fear troops coming in a day or two, but right now the choice about wether your people will be slaughtered or not is not in their hands, it is in yours. Choose wisely.”
As he finished, a young woman broke from the group by the doors and dashed to his side - she had light brown hair, braided like the Azguard, and bore an angry expression. Aron didn’t recognize her, but she wore no-nonsense labour clothes, and held a wood axe with worrisome conviction. In fact, as he observed her arrival, she didn’t seem the angry type. Her eyes seemed more curious than wrathful, although they were doing a marvelous job of it now as she gave Aron a glare that broke the spell of the moment. He quickly turned back to Do’Lash.
Do’Lash leaned down so that the newcomer could whisper something in his ear. The giant nodded gently back, and returned his full attention to the captain. “The townsfolk are getting concerned, so we will return to the comparative safety of the town hall. Our fate is in your hands, captain.”
Aron watched the group file back into the town hall, feeling helpless as events continued to move towards an inevitable conclusion. He could hear Julius’s doomsday voice calling him back, “Captain.”
Aron climbed back over the makeshift defences. “Captain, your bumbling sergeant has finally retrieved the ammunition.” Here it comes “Commence firing immediately.”
“No.”
“What? Wh-”
Before he could even finish another word, Aron’s fist connected with Julius’s jaw. It turned out the governor had a glass jaw. In fact, he was entirely breakable, something Aron learned when he rammed his knee into Julius’s stomach and kicked out the man’s legs from under him. In a collapsed heap on the ground, the governor wisely chose to stop moving. Or expired. Instantly, his retinue of assistants and minor guards fled as fast as they could out of town, leaving the Cairn Camari soldiers to look around uneasily.
Gradually, Aron became aware of the cheering behind him. He turned, to see the people of Sycamore turning out happily. The chants resumed with renewed enthusiasm, and eventually the soldiers caught on too, joining the throngs. In fact, the only ones who didn’t seem overjoyed were Aron and John - and, Aron soon noticed, Do’Lash, who seemed to just be watching things unfold.
“So...” said John “I guess we didn’t have any other choice. Wasn’t like we were going to fire on the townsfolk, right?”
Aron hesitated for a moment “Yeah...” He glanced at Do’Lash, before turning back to John. “Let’s leave everyone at it for a while. You, me, and the big grey dope over there are going to have to decide what to do next.”
As Aron, John, and Do’Lash slipped away from the crowd, private Clyde grinned widely and said “Who’da thought the captain would just have to smack that guy in the face, and we’d be free?”
Private Alice, who was nearby, shifted through the crowd and said “Of course not, ignoramus. The Dunholt will be back, they’ve just been temporarily expelled.”
“Oh.” said Clyde, who brightened up and said “Well, when they come back, the captain could thrown them out again, right?”
“O’course he can.” said Corporal Scott, beaming with pride and hanging his hands from his belt. “The captain’s gotter have brass balls to take on Julius, I’d like ta see the Dunholt that could bring ‘im down.”
“Maybe...” said Alice, who turned pensive. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
The soldiers and townsfolk continued to celebrate their newfound independence by tearing down signs and images of the Dunholt occupation, while Aron, John, and Do’Lash sat about a table in the town hall’s lobby.
“Okay.” spat Aron “Your little social experiment’s worked so far, Do’Lash, so tell me - now that you’ve won us over, what’s your next brilliant strategy? You know, the one that deflects the whole army of the Dunholt with just my thirty five soldiers?” Aron looked up, and saw that the woman with the Azguardian braids in her hair had joined them. “What is she doing here?”
Do’Lash smiled “I’m sorry, captain, I should bring you up to speed. This is Leanna, a student of philosophy and worldly ways who has assisted me thus far in organizing the townsfolk. Her popularity with the people has made her their unofficial representative here.”
Leanna gave Aron a distrustful look, but she took a seat at the table. Do’Lash gave the group a nod and rolled a map across the table. It showed the entire Cairn-Camari mountain range, with every valley marked out clearly and all sorts of notation on various points, “In my travels, I’ve learnt much of the layout of this land. There is in fact a Dunholt outpost nearby, where several hundred soldiers are used to police the surrounding region, including your town. Should they be put out of commission, the nearest force the Dunholt army could deploy is the army of general Showitz, a native Cairn-Camarian commanding a native army. I believe he can be turned.
“The only thing we need worry about, then, is the destruction of the Dunholt outpost’s forces before Showitz arrives. If we prove our mettle, he is a man of patriotism and is thus unlikely to order his soldiers to destroy us.”
“The story checks out, sir.” said John to Aron. “Showitz was a good general during the wars, and loyal as anything. You’d never see him lift a sword to his own. As for the Dunholt, I’ve never heard of them sending a whole army this far south, so it’s probably true the outpost is all they’ve got around here.”
“All right, so assuming we somehow totally destroy the army many times our size, and convince a total stranger to join us in this crazy rebellion, then what?”
Do’Lash smiled again, and said “One step at a time, captain. How to actually defend Sycamore, however, is not my forte - for that, a military mind is needed, such as yourself. If it can be done, however, then we may be able to cast the Dunholt out of Cairn Camari.”
“The townspeople aren’t totally defenseless.” interjected Leanna. “We didn’t run away when Julius threatened to shoot at the town hall.”
“Yeah, but they also ran and hid when I got knocked over by a watermelon.” retorted Aron.
“I didn’t.” said Leanna, and there was a hint of spite in her voice. Aron was about to talk back when John put his hand firmly on Aron’s shoulder.
“No need for this so early on, lad.” said John. “We’re all going to have to work together if we’re going to protect Sycamore - there’s four main ways into town that need to be guarded, and we’ll need somewhere to hide none-combatants. Let’s focus on that for now, okay?”
Aron fumed, but kept his mouth shut. He glanced at Do’Lash, and said “I’ll see what I can do about organizing some defenses. You better know what you’re doing, grey man.” before storming out. Leanna did shortly after.
Once they left, John took a seat nearer to Do’Lash and sighed. “Those two are already off to a bad start. This is going to be harder than I thought, did Finneus find that package?”
“Yes, thank you.” said the Azguard, as he poured over the map. “It contains all my notes. I don’t need it any more, but I want you to hold on to it.”
John seemed surprised. “Me? Why me?”
“As an added insurance. We Azguards have a saying ‘You are borne with two eyes, two arms, and two minds. Nature knows that it is best to have a spare of everything.’ Hold on to it for me.”
John gulped, and said “All right. I better go help Aron, he tends to get depressed when he’s angry and we need him to focus.”
Do’Lash simply nodded, as the sergeant left. The map was covered in markers, with tiny handwriting next to each. Delicately, he rubbed out a small black mark next to Sycamore, and put a clear circle in its’ place. To him, it was like an artist’s masterpiece.
***
“To me? Well, to me it looks like a big ole’ pile of boxes,” Said private Chris.
“That’s because it is,” replied private Spencer “Barricades are basically big piles of boxes and junk. You stay behind them and try to keep the enemy on the other side. It’s pretty basic, really.”
“Oh, I get that, sure,” Chris squatted behind a stack of boxes, and squinted over them. “Just... I figured we’d be gettin’ something better’n some wood crates to defend.” Chris was tall and thin, so that he looked kind of like a cylinder when he wore his armor. He also had a long, pointed face that gave him the appearance of a flag pole sans flag.
Spencer, on the other hand, was the eternal athlete - clean of limb and upright of posture, he had his hair cut exactly to military regulation and was one of the few soldiers whose tabard had been carefully preserved to its’ original yellow and brown. The two of them patrolled the narrow strip of road around the north gate, where crates and other detritus was collecting to form a crude wall. An elderly lady struggled to put a spice rack on top of the barricade, but Spencer quickly explained to her that they were doing just fine as it was.
The two went back to their small patrol. After a minute, Chris said “So explain it to me again, what’re we doing?”
Spencer sighed, and shook his head. “You never listen, do you?”
“I listen, it’s just the cap’n uses a lotta fancy language like per-meter, that I don’t get.”
“The word is perimeter. The plan is for us to form a defensive perimeter around the town’s gates, and keep the Dunholt out.”
Chris looked around, and said “We’ve got a lot of gates, though, and there’s only thirty five of us, cap’n included.”
“Well, I guess the realm of high strategy is for officers. Troopers like us just need to follow orders - and put more crates on the barricade. You’re right, it’s looking a bit low - hey!”
Spencer dashed off as Finneus and a gang of local kids ran with one of the crates lifted over their heads. They were soon away, however, leaving Spencer shouting angrily after them “My lunch is in there, you thieving kids!”
Chris laughed, and patted his fellow soldier on the back “Come on, let’s go find some more stuff to put on the barricade.”
***
Aron stood on the town gate, looking out at the grassy knolls of the valley that ended abruptly at the jagged mountains in the distance. The sycamore trees were like a little leafy ocean that swayed with a wind Aron couldn’t feel. He watched the swift little river rush from one end of a rock wall to the other, as he had when he was a small boy. It all seemed so far away now, as below him the gates were being fortified for invasion.
“You think we should send someone to warn the old pensioners at the mountain path?”
John, who was standing nearby, shook his head. “I should imagine they were in on the whole thing - old soldiers like them, they get all the news going in and out of town. They’ll find a safe place to hole up until it’s all over.”
There was a lull in the conversation as they watched a falcon fly low across the valley before lifting off again. Aron weighed his words caref
I wrote this book a little while ago for a school project. It's hardly great, but I do like it and this website has a lot of writing on it anyways, so I thought, "why not?" Enjoy. Oh, and the italics and bolds and such are also gone. It's a pain, I know, but it should still be more than servicible. Feel free to read if you have nothing whatsoever to do.
The Six Nations of the Dunholt
Book 1
The freedom of Cairn-Camari
The day was still unfolding on the hills and rocks that spread out before Blockhouse 118, the golden light driving the last clouds of night before it and breathing life back into the sleeping world. It seeped through the windows of the old stone building, through cracks in the thin curtains, to rest on the face of the sleeping captain - captain Aron Kobar, of the Cairn-Camari army, unit 118, the district of Sycamore Valley.
Under his rough blanket, his eyelids flickered as he tried to resist the rise of morning, but it was no use. The light stubbornly refused to dim, and so ever so slowly he rose with it.
To the window he went, and pushed aside the curtains - looking out on the gentle, rolling landscape of Sycamore, dotted with the trees that gave the region it’s name. The sunlight was just now creeping over the mountains that in the distance marked the boundaries of the land. Aron squinted in the light, blinking several times to dispel the sleep from his eyes, and turned in towards his quarters. He sighed.
Why is it always such a mess in here?, Aron wondered, as he picked through the odds and ends scattered across the wooden floor - a razor here, a clean pair of socks there. The weighty sword was still unpolished, the equally weighty shield had yet to be repaired. Ignoring these tasks, the captain maintained his search until he found his comb and small mirror, and went to the rest room.
Here, at least, was a privilege of rank. The young captain had unruly black hair and always a day’s worth of stubble. Aron prided himself on being one shave short of a clean face, and despite regulation letting his hair grow however it wanted. Blockhouse 118 was too far out for any official inspection, anyways. Nevertheless, on this morning he made a few token efforts to straighten his hair and at least shave some of the scruffier areas. He inspected the effect in the mirror, and as he began to wake up sighed at the mildly gaunt and sallow face that looked back. It hadn’t always been like this...
It had been five years ago, and captain Aron had been just private Aron, an excitable young recruit in the Cairn-Camari Army. He was holding a spear he hardly knew how to use, a sword he could barely lift, and wore armor that weighed more than he did, but surrounded by the ranks of armored men he felt invincible - surrounded by the Grand Army of the Duke of Camari, on the fields outside the capital of Cairn Stone. Yellow banners whipped in the wind, emblazoned with Cairn-Camari’s heraldric brown stag.
He looked around at the nearest men, but found each grim-jawed and silent. A man of at least fifty with a flowing, greying beard puffed furiously at a pipe, but beyond that the entire regiment was near motionless. Aron felt a little disoriented, but again stayed silent.
He’d signed up for the usual reasons - duke, country, your own bed, and a chance to save the world from some sort of terrible evil. Of course, all he had to work with were the recruitment posters, but whatever they were facing it had looked fairly intimidating. The older soldiers, who had been fighting the war up until this point, had only told young Aron the enemy’s name - the Dunholt. Aron still looked back darkly at how naive he’d been then, but a great deal of that naivety would die when he finally looked across the battlefield at what they were facing.
“Keep in line you lot!” bellowed a sergeant with just one good eye, waving a notched sword above his head and pacing before Aron’s unit. “The good Duke is going to have a talk with our friends on the other side of this field! If you see a white flag, that means we go home. If you hear lots of shouting and someone kills someone else - well, that means you do as I say!”
“Man, I hope we fight.” a recruit had said, standing somewhere behind Aron. “I heard these Dunholt kicked the Oralian Army’s ass, so they’ve gotta be real supermen.”
Aron hadn’t said anything, he’d just looked out across the field, squinting at the tent where the leaders of both armies would be negotiating before the battle.
“Hey, you ever seen a Dunholt?” said the recruit behind Aron. “I hear they’re not men at all, just suits of armor and weapons. They don’t eat or sleep or anything.”
“And you believe that?” Aron had said, laughing “No, I hope you’re true. I’d love to fight an enemy that hasn’t had any sleep in months - they’d be pushovers. Besides, Duke Camari is undefeated. I bet we’ll never even get to fight them.”
The sergeant shushed them quite suddenly, and the felt a terrible prickly sensation as the beat of iron-shod feet could be heard in the distance. Crows always gathered over battlefields, but these ones were sitting well away, silent watchers. Aron gulped, and wiped the sweat from his brow. In the distance, the Dunholt came.
Rank upon rank of men in fully concealing, identical black armor in head to toe. They looked almost hewn from solid iron, colorless and symbol-free except for decorative banners and tabards, and the grisly war-trophies that were in abundance. The only ones who appeared even nearly human were the enemy officers, on horseback and adorned in personal trophies and tokens. The Cairn-Camari officers were convening with them now, discussing terms before the battle.
After an eternity, the officers seemed finished, and the Duke of Camari lowered the flag of Cairn-Camari and lifted a white flag in it’s place - it would be a few moments before Aron understood it’s significance.
“Surrender?” he said, in disbelief “Surrender? We came all this way, with all our weapons and all the promises of fighting just to... just to surrender!?”
The old man with the pipe and beard slowly puffed away, and said “You can call it surrender if you want, young one, but trust me when I say this - whatever deal they just struck saved every one of our lives.”
Aron wasn’t sure at the time, but looking back on the ranks of black-armored men for as far as the eye could see, he knew the old man was right. Cairn-Camari had been the last of six nations seized by the invading Dunholt armies from the sea, it was a battle they had lost before Aron had even known they were at war.
He sighed, and replaced the comb and mirror. That was then. Aron donned his uniform and equipment, the chain-mail that had become familiar to him and the tattered tabard of the Cairn-Camari army. This was now.
Down the stairs, through the cold stone halls of the blockhouse, Aron dragged his feet towards the main entrance. On the way he gave a gentle kick to old sergeant John Blyth, the same old, bearded man who’d stood and looked out at the battle already lost on the fields outside Cairn Stone. The old sergeant snorted, and woke from his chair by the fireplace.
“Come on, wake up.” said Aron, wearily “We’ve got roll-call in ten minutes, and the runner from Sycamore’s expected today.”
“I was up, I’ll have you know.” said the old man, stretching and stifling a yawn “Just resting my eyes for a moment, was all. Captain you may be, but I’ll be damned if I let you get away with more than one kick a day. Sir.”
Aron smiled, and chuckled at the weary sergeant “I know, I know - it was all just to antagonize you, part of the scheme young people today have to show less respect to our elders. But if we can set personal matters aside, you’re the only one here who can play a bugle.”
“I know, I know, quiet down.” John grumbled his way over to the fire, and lifted a bubbling concoction from over it - he poured a molten cup of coffee for himself, and offered one to Aron, who politely turned it down. Cup in hand, the sergeant then shuffled to the door with the captain in tow, and finally ended up outside the blockhouse.
“Bloody cold day, today.” grumbled John “And they call this summer, do they? Your generation? Bah, don’t know what summer’s all about. Oh well, nothing we can do about that.” Brittle, weary old form that he was, John still lifted the bugle to his lips, and with a sharp whistle played the loud, grating morning roll-call. Aron had to cover his ears until the old man was finished, and put the bugle safely back on the ground again.
“Finished?” he asked, and John just grumbled in response. “All right. Now we just wait for the troops to fall in. Today could be important.”
“I can see that, you almost shaved for it.”
Aron affectionately rubbed the thin stubble around his chin “I guess some people don’t understand the finer things in life. Well-groomed stubble is considered a plus these days, John.”
“Really? I sometimes wonder who fills your young mind up with such rot.”
Slowly, one at a time, the men and women of Cairn-Camari Unit 118 turned out. Corporal Chebon dragged along last, the lanky man with the hair that didn’t just flaunt regulation, it taunted them. “Why you gotta wake us up so early today, sir? It’s not like the hills are on fire or something. I was having a hell of a dream, too.”
“Enough of that, corporal.” said Aron in clipped, officious tones. “Today we’ve got to look at least somewhat presentable, there’s a runner from Sycamore with orders from the Dunholt ‘Provisional Command’, and - Are we all awake yet, private Montague?”
A small man with a bushy brown mustache suddenly straightened right up, his eyes shaded from sight by the visor of his helmet, and indeed all that could be seen between the mustache and the rim of the helmet was a bulbous nose. “Sir, yes sir! Awake and accounted for, sir! Present! Ready and waiting!”
“...Right, well, good man.” said Aron, who crossed his arms before him and looked at the fine body of men and women he commanded - most younger than he was, the rest graying and complaining about the weather. The yellow uniform of the Camari army to be worn over the armor was tattered on every single one of them, and the heraldic stag had faded off most. Helmets were dented, faces were unwashed and grumpy, in all the effect was like someone had taken a perfectly good military unit and dragged it through some mud and nettles backwards for thirty minutes - and they hadn’t even started yet.
He sighed “Oh well. Might as well make the best of it. Try and hold your stance until the messenger’s out of sight, eh? We might get one of those by-the-book types and be trapped in a lecture for the rest of the day.”
“Why do we even serve the Dunholt, anyways?” grumbled Chebon to Montague. Though Chebon was a higher rank, the older man just ruffled his mustache in frustration at the short memories of youth.
“We serve them, corporal, because we lost the war - just like all the six nations did. Our mighty army and our proud Duke were usurped by the foul Dunholt invaders, so now we are at their mercy. We’re lucky they even let us soldiers remain after they won, or maybe they haven’t got enough men of their own from across the sea to replace us.”
“Geeze, when did all that happen?”
“What? It’s been all over the place for years now! How could you have missed the terrible ravaging of our beloved country?”
“I dunno...” said Chebon “I’ve been busy... Do you know how much a good lute costs? I don’t see how the Dunholt have much to do with that.”
There was a little more grumbling ranks, but Aron silenced them at the sound of approaching hoof-falls.
A man - we can only assume - totally bedecked in black metal armor without symbol or marking rode an equally dark steed over the hills and rocks of the valley. The only sound was the clop of the horse’s hooves on the ground, the armored man simply remained motionless and silent. As they approached Aron could feel the nervous intake of breath from the soldiers behind him, and he was compelled to size up the approaching Dunholt messenger. Did they never take off those damn helmets?
The rider pulled up next to Aron and glared down at him from behind the concealing visor. The captain just returned the glare, until finally the messenger broke eye-contact and reached into a black leather saddlebag. With little ceremony, the rider shoved a rolled-up parchment sealed with the black-wax seal of the Dunholt to Aron, and wordlessly he spurred his mount away.
“Bet I could hit him from here with my hunting bow and they’d be none the wiser...” muttered John, shuffling from foot to foot as they watched him ride away.
Aron just shook his head dismissively, saying “Until they send a whole company our way to find out. They just don’t give up.” Aron unrolled the parchment.
“Well!” he said “This is some good news, at least. We’ve been ordered to relocate to Sycamore and garrison up for a week or two. Pack your things, everyone, we’re going to town in an hour.”
With some cheers, the soldiers broke formation and pushed back into the blockhouse to gather their gear together. Aron weighed the letter in his hand for a moment longer as he read again the rest of his orders, before crumpling it in his fist. The nerve of the Dunholt commander! Best not to tell the troops just why they were being relocated yet, bad news made for longer walks, and town was still a good day away.
***
Aron’s world is a world of adventure and magic, or at least, it once was. Alone on the island continent of Nordren, six nations have lived side by side for centuries, ever since the original settlers came from across the sea. At times they have warred, at other times they have traded, but the six nations of Cairn-Camari, Oralia, Narston, Azguard, Vernland, and Current have always been the constants around which their world turned.
All this changed, when - five years ago - invaders calling themselves the Dunholt took the continent by storm, their brutal warriors steam-rolling over each of the six nations in turn. This conquering force dragged the nations of Nordren together into the Dunholt Empire, sending down draconian laws and reaping a great deal of the riches. For a time, the Empire was chaotic as it became the plaything of Dunholt warlords.
However, the new empire soon stabilized after the Dunholt leader Cain decided that the Dunholt lacked the forces or the power to hold all six of the nations together, and so instead kept the nations, making them all dependant states and freeing up the majority of the Dunholt forces to maintain control of Current - the capital of this new Empire. Collaborationist governments were instated with Dunholt rulers over the other five nations, and soon, people settled into the new order that had taken hold of Nordren. In time, it even began to bring prosperity and relief, but always under the oppressive and alien control of the Dunholt.
Aron lived in Cairn-Camari, the smallest of the nations on Nordren, a tough country made up of valleys and mountains in the warm, dry south. They were a tough people, with a tough lifestyle that involved a lot of mining and farming, and as such built tough little towns and keeps isolated by the harsh terrain. Despite all this carefully cultured toughness, they fell to the Dunholt quickly, for although individually tough Cairn-Camari was still a small country and could only field a small army. The Duke had been left in charge, but under a ‘Provisional Government’ of Dunholt ‘advisors’ from their fortress in Current. For all practical purposes, Cairn-Camari was conquered.
Aron reflected on all this as they trudged over the grasslands on the way to Sycamore, where the road had become overgrown. Behind him marched his soldiers - hardly an army. Blockhouse 118 was just enough for the captain and those under his command, and it wasn’t built for many.
Sergeant John was the most experienced, and his grey hair commanded instant respect in a nation where life was a daily struggle against the elements - as well as instant despair as he went into a rambling story about the past. Then there was corporal Chebon, an amateur bard and musician who only joined the army because in times of peace it was an easy three meals a day. Private Montague was dangerously patriotic for a man Aron had to lean down to look in the eye. Most of the others weren’t much better either. Aron had thirty-five troops, and he really wouldn’t trust any of them with a country stroll, let alone military activity.
He suddenly heard a strumming of lute strings. Aron sighed - as if to prove his point, Chebon held up the ranks for a moment as he adjusted the lute slung over his shoulder. Aron considered fighting it, but found he just couldn’t be bothered. Who knows, if he actually learnt how to play it might make the trip go faster.
“Okay...” said Chebon “I think I’ve got it this time. How’s this? I gave my love a cherry that had no stone.”
“What would a cherry be doing with a rock, sir?” said private Clyde, following behind the musician in training.
“No, private, the stone is the middle bit of the cherry - y’know, the bit you don’t eat?”
“I thought that was a pit, sir?”
“Nah” said private Knox “That’s peaches you’re thinking of. Peaches have pits, Cherries have stones, apples have cores.”
“Can’t trust that foreign fruit.” said Montague, darkly “No good for you, sir! Full of foreign things.”
“You can get peaches here in Cairn-Camari, Montague.” said Knox with an elaborate eye-roll.
“Sure, imported peaches.” he spat, as if the word was dirty in his mouth “Where some dago’s been touching it and filling it full of exotic diseases.”
The conversation of the merits of large-scale agricultural imports continued in the background of Aron’s hearing, as he kept walking in the front of the unit. He guessed he shouldn’t complain - there were worse jobs in the army, for sure. Still, in a way, Aron wished just for once, he felt like a real captain amongst his troops instead of the arbiter for when the fruit-discussion reaches an impasse.
Sergeant John caught Aron up as they walked, and said “You’re a little quiet this morning. Anything on your mind?”
Aron looked up, weighing wether he should tell his old friend and mentor. Finally, he sighed, and nodded his head “We’re not being moved to Sycamore for our good health. The Provisional Command wants us to ‘keep the peace’ while a preacher is in town.”
“A bit of a long way for one of their number to come.” John seemed a little unsure of this news, and said “Well, they’re a quiet lot, so what trouble is one preacher?”
“Lots, if he gets the people riled up.” whispered Aron, who looked to make sure none of his troops were listening in “Apparently he’s a bit of a rabble-rouser, been up and down the countryside saying the Dunholt are a menace. If he gets people worked up, it’s us who will have to put down the riot, and I just don’t trust this lot in that sort of situation. I don’t even want to stop people from rising up and throwing out the Dunholt.”
“Except it’s not some world-wide uprising, is it, sir?” said John, with the practiced voice of experience “I’ve seen a few riots in my time. Don’t worry, sir, all we have to do is stand in a line for a while, let the crowd shout themselves horse, then we go home. Maybe arrest the preacher if things get out of hand, that should quiet them down.”
Aron nodded glumly “Sure...”
The walk to town continued along the verdant hills of the valley, before the unit passed through an army checkpoint guarding a path between one of the mountain walls that sliced up Cairn-Camari. Aron nodded to the old pensioners who spent their days stamping documents and looking out on the valley, before leading his troops past their little hut. Would he end up there one day, in a dilapidated shack watching the younger soldiers march by? Or maybe like John, too old for promotion but forever too young to give up the military life?
It was as he swilled these thoughts around that they crested the mountain’s path, and looked across the next valley to where Sycamore was nestled - in amongst glades of its’ namesake tree, dotting the landscape and lining a river that cut swiftly through the space between the mountains.
“Quite the sight...” said Chebon, who began to unsling his lute.
“Enough of that!” Bellowed the unit’s second sergeant, rushing forwards from the rear “I’ve had enough of your shrieking, corporal. This is a military outfit, and we should act like it.” With that, Sergeant Asnabar saluted to captain Aron, who nodded. “Right! Unit! We will march in two columns into Sycamore on the double! Keep in line! Eyes forwards!”
“He really does get right into it, doesn’t he?” murmured John to Aron, as the two looked on to the hapless soldiers shouted about by the craggy, middle-aged Asnabar. Aron nodded, and chuckled.
The unit was shouted at the rest of the way, which kept things nice and orderly as they entered the town.
***
Sycamore was a little valley town, in a stretch of green between two lines of mountains. The town was an island of peace and comfort in the harsh, unforgiving environment of Cairn Camari, with stone buildings and thatched roofs lining the cobble-stone streets. A few thousand people lived in and around the town, but it was certainly no urban core. In fact, Aron’s arrival with his small unit of soldiers was the second biggest thing to happen in Sycamore for weeks.
It was because of the first thing that they were here.
“Seems awfully quiet...” muttered John as the soldiers walked under a stone arch marking the entrance to town. “You’d think everyone would be out on a day like this.”
“You’re right...” said Aron, uneasily. A minute later, they began to hear the sounds of a crowd. Feeling anxious, Aron gestured for the troops to pick up the pace.
They moved quickly through the stone arch that marked the entrance to the town square. Inside, it seemed everyone had turned out to where an overturned cart in the middle of the stone square sat. The crowd appeared to have all the qualities of the people of Sycamore - they were the farmers, the builders, the workers, even the town elders, dressed in everyday attire of yellow and brown, looking up at a figure on top of the overturned cart.
The man on top of the cart wasn’t, in fact, a man. It was taller, had grey skin, and had a somewhat rubbery look. It wore a plain white robe, and was speaking passionately in a gruff, guttural accent. Aron groaned “An Azguard! What is he doing so far south?”
Azguards were a near-human race that lived in the mountain nation also called Azguard. They almost never came down from the mountains, their largest appearance up to now had been when their army was defeated by the Dunholt. Aron had heard of them, but hadn’t seen many in person, he merely knew their reputation for being isolationist and intensely spiritual.
As they approached, the Azguards’ words became audible “...So only if the six stand together as one, shall there ever be a return to our former dignity, and society. The Dunholt are efficient, true, and they have brought ‘peace’ - but it is a false peace, made not by solving conflicts or bringing understanding, merely by burying the past, by...”
Unfortunately, this was why they were here. He brought out the crumpled note, and began to clear his throat. Behind him, his troops uneasily began to fan out.
It was then that the Azguard spotted Aron, and in a subtle move shifted gears. Before the crowd noticed the soldiers, he said “And so I finish my speech for today. I thank you all for listening, and bid you all return again for the last of my preaching tomorrow. It appears we have guests from away! I hope you all remember to greet them warmly.” With that, the gangly creature dropped off the back of the cart, straightened up, and politely departed.
Aron relaxed, and gestured for his men to stand down as the crowd dispersed. They got some funny looks, but for the most part the townspeople didn’t seem too concerned with the arrival of the soldiers, instead discussing in hushed tones the content of the speech they had just heard.
It unnerved Aron, seeing people talking like that - quietly, seriously, intensely, to the point that the whole crowd sounded like a low hum.
“...Sergeant?” said Aron, still distracted “Dismiss the soldiers for a few hours leave, we’ll regroup at six at the local blockhouse, all right?”
“Would that be sergeant Asnabar or myself who should give the order to be dismissed, sir?” Asked John, patiently.
“Hm?” Aron snapped out of his thoughts, and said “Oh... yes, John. Give the order, I have to meet the local governor.”
“Right you are sir.” said John, smiling, before turning to address the whole unit. “All right, everyone! You are dismissed, to regroup at the local blockhouse by no later than six tonight, got it? Use the sundial if you can’t guess the time.”
Glad to be free after their earlier march, the soldiers scattered in all directions, leaving their captain drifting in and out of thought. John paused next to Aron and said “Are you sure you’re all right, sir?”
“Yeah... just got a few things to think about, John. Don’t worry about me, you go relax.”
“Well, don’t worry too much, sir. I’ll keep an eye out on the troops - I doubt they’ll get into much trouble today anyways.”
“Thanks.” Aron straightened his helmet with a flourishing gesture, and said “Now to get down to business.”
***
“Come in, come in!” The huge, sweaty face of Mr. Gregario almost shone bright enough to light up the little store. It had once been a much larger store, before Mr. Gregario had filled it with all manner of fruit, vegetables, and questionably edible plant-like things. Nevertheless, the smell was inviting - that of the fruits and vegetables, not the musk of Mr. Gregario - and Aron returned his smile affectionately.
“Ah, Mr. captain, back on a special mission?” said Mr. Gregario, “Then you simply must take some of my new Vernland beans, they’re fresh as-”
“No, no, Mr. Gregario.” said Aron, who couldn’t help but smile. “Just the usual, a few apples. I could use something to snack on after the trip here.”
“Yes, yes, a long walk.” the shopkeeper replied, as he collected apples from a hanging basket. “A walk so far would make you thirsty. Are you sure you don’t want to buy some oranges? They are all fresh today, and for you, I’ll make a special offer-”
“No thanks, Mr. G. The apples will do just fine.” He took a coin from a belt pouch and flicked it to Mr. Gregario. Picking up one of the apples, he bit into it and said through a full mouth “So, I’ve been called back to town to deal with some sort of local emergency. You wouldn’t happen to know much about it, would you?”
Mr. Gregario showed a momentary pause, but recovered quickly “I don’t know about that, but if someone doesn’t start buying these peaches, that’d be an emergency! Tell those soldiers of yours, they’re always welcome here! Special rates for people serving Cairn Cam-”
“You mean the Dunholt Provisional Government?”
Again, Mr. Gregario had to catch himself “Well... yes... that too. Special rates! Tell your friends!”
Aron laughed, and said “You charge everyone ‘special rates’, Gregario. I’m starting to suspect something.”
“Really?” Mr. Gregario seemed a little uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking “Well... my rates are special because I always offer such good deals! Go ahead, take another apple on the house.”
Aron chuckled, and threw an apple core in the trash “No thanks. I gotta go, Gregario. Anything going on tonight?”
“Um, like what?”
“You know, anything going on tonight? At the bar, or socially - something fun to pass time, you know? An event, maybe?”
“Not tonight, no.” Mr. Gregario said, louder than he needed to. “No, tonight’s going to be a slow night, I believe. Well, I don’t want to keep you from your important business! Remember my special rates!”
“Sure, Mr. G” said Aron, who walked off chuckling. Once Mr. Gregarion was sure he was gone, he squeezed through a narrow space between shelves of fruit.
There, he unlocked a door concealed by a hanging bag of bananas. He opened the door, and behind it was a grey stone room barely lit by a single candle on a spindly table. Sitting at the table was a stern-looking young woman with brown hair held back in a braid, as well as a towering profile half-concealed by shadow.
Gregario mopped his sweaty brow with the back of his sleeve, “We might have a problem...”
***
“What’s the problem?” said John. He rocked gently back and forth in his old chair, on the little stretch of patio afforded to the blockhouse. Private Elza and private Chris were tending his small garden, but he was distracted from his supervising role by corporal Yuki, who held a local boy by the ear in her vicelike grip.
“This little parasite’s been trying to break into the blockhouse’s locker room.” she snapped, thrusting the offender forwards. “I caught him trying to bend window frame with a crowbar.”
John leaned forwards. His face was a mask of deepest seriousness. “Is this true, young man?”
“‘s” squeaked the boy, and Yuki gave another tug on his ear. “Yes! I was, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay at all!” Yuki gave him a glare. “What was it you were trying to steal?”
“Uh...” now the boy seemed very reluctant, and even another ear tug yielded little results “Not s’posed to say.”
“I could feed you a potion that’d turn you purple your hair green for a week, not to mention make you-”
“Er... I don’t think that’ll be totally necessary.” said John. He seemed a little queasy, in fact. “Listen, young Finneus, I happen to know your mum, so we’ll forget this incident and you go straight home. I won’t tell her this time, but so help me if you try again...” He was already scurrying off. Yuki seemed unsatisfied.
“You’re not the sort to be lenient, John - and he didn’t even tell us what he was trying to steal!”
“Well, you know how it is sometimes, right? Kids are kids, better we leave ‘em be for now. It’s not like he was doing something absolutely awful. Compared to some of the things people get up to these days? Anyways, you like fiddling with things, why not go reinforce that window?”
Yuki shrugged, “Well, all right, but I can’t imagine what’d be worse than stealing from the army.”
***
“I gave my love a cherry, that had no stone...” Chebon strummed slowly on his lute, singing his latest hit to a tavern crowd of admirers.
“How does he do it?” Said corporal Scott, as he scratched his bald head. A man built large, he sported a thick brown beard to go with his lack of hair. “Th’ man makes up a song about... about fruit, and he’s got women all over him, batting their eyes and sayin’ ‘Oh, you like music, do you?’” He drank down an entire tankard of ale, wiping the foam on his sleeve “I tell you, it’s disgusting.”
“Yes, a little,” said private Alice. A red-headed girl with stern features, she seemed to be trying to lean away from the entire bar at once. “We’re given napkins for a reason, Scott.”
Sourly, Scott turned and said to Montague, who was also sitting with them “Can you believe this girl, Monty? We’re out here, trying to have a good time while we’re still in town, and she’s gotta start complaining about my drinking. I mean, be fair.”
“She is being fair, sir - you’re getting cheap beer all over your official army uniform! That’s a disgrace to the nation, sir,” Montague pointed his bulbous nose in the air, and sniffed in clear disdain for the corporal’s lack of ettiquete. “The Duke’s Rules of Warfare specify that all uniforms should be clean and well-maintained whenever possible.”
“Well, s’not possible when yer havin’ a drink,” said Scott, who shakily put down his tankard. A general silence fell over the three soldiers, before Scott said “So what you suppose the cap’n is up to, anyways? Yea’d think he’d be in here with us soldiers, getting piss-drunk.”
“Captain Aron’s a busy - if decidedly reluctant - man,” said Alice, who sipped tentatively at her drink. “I imagine he’s gone off to attend to whatever business was worth calling us into town.”
“It’s quite obvious, sir, that we’ve been called in to keep an eye on that Azguard,” said Montague, with an air of superiority quickly summoned when taking about ‘foreign types’. “They’re shifty, Azguards. Living their whole lives in the mountains, doing who-knows-what. Everyone knows that no civilized people live in mountains, they live in cities, like us.”
“Yer a right paragon of civilization, you,” Scott said, while rolling his eyes. “Let’s just relax and enjoy tha drinks.”
“You can, if you want,” said a matronly voice behind them. A large woman of middle age, whose red dress didn’t offset her size so much as reinforce her presence - every ounce of her shouted ‘I am someone’s mother’, even down to the painted nails. “Montague! Where have you been? Your sister always takes the time to visit me - every week, I might add.”
Montague’s generally stubborn disposition melted into pale fright “B-but mum! She works in the fish market! I’m stationed out as far as-”
“That’s no excuse, you know. I could drop down dead tomorrow and you wouldn’t care at all, I’ll wager! Wouldn’t even show up for the funeral. Now come along home, it’s almost dinner,” Montague mumbled something, and his mother gave him a dark look “What was that, young man?”
“y’s mum.”
“That’s better.”
“Have a fine evenin’ Mrs. Brewer.” said Scott, smiling as the helpless corporal was dragged away. He then turned back to Alice, and said “The cap’n might be a bit of a depressed bugger at times, but he knows what he’s doing.”
***
I have no idea what I’m doing. Thought Aron as he stood outside Sycamore’s town hall. It was a grand old building, built sturdily out of stone and thick trunks of local sycamore wood. Outside, two local city guards stood to attention, whereas inside awaited the Dunholt governor, and likely an entourage of assistants.
Steadying his nerves, Aron took the steps two at a time, entering via the wooden double doors. The doors were the really old kind, three times bigger than normal that were so hard to open that people usually opened them once then left them open the rest of the day. Once inside, he made his way quickly through the lobby. The building wasn’t too big on the inside, and after moving around the tight formation of desks that dominated the center of the hall he found the door he was looking for, and entered the presence of the governor.
“Ah... Aron, is it?” The voice was crisp, and emotionless. Governor Julius wore a lightweight suit of chainmail armor, mad the same tone of darkness as the larger foot soldiers. His face was pale, in contrast to this, as well as long and worn, yet there was not a hint of weakness in his eyes. “I trust our message was adequate to explain the situation? The Dunholt provisional government of Cairn Camari requires your immediate action to detain the Azguard preacher that has taken residence in Sycamore. He is a menace to the population, spreading lies and creating trouble where there was none before.”
“Yes, sir,” said Aron, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. The room was mostly empty beyond a desk and some paperwork, as well as the chair the governor sat in. The only object of note was a sword mounted on the wall behind him, next to a window.
“Lethal force is approved, although it would be preferred if he is returned alive - governor Rogan in Cairn Stone has expressed interest in why an Azguard would come this far south. I understand the people of Sycamore have taken a liking to him, so you are to carry out your orders tonight.”
Aron paused, and cautiously said “Uh... sir, at night, he would technically be committing no crime. Shouldn’t we wait until morning, when he tries to speak again, and arrest him then?”
“What, in front of an entire crowd? Give him another chance to voice his slanderous opinions?” said Julius, who rose slowly to his feet. “No, this situation needs to be nipped in the bud. I trust your loyalties in this matter are not confused?”
After a pause just barely noticeable, but still noticed by both of them, Aron said “There is no confusion at all, sir.”
“Good.” said the governor, who turned away to look out the window “Now get out of my sight.”
I bet I could hit him from here and they’d be none the wiser. He thought, griping the hilt of his sword. That is, until I set foot out of this office. They just don’t give up. Aron let go of the sword, and sighed.
Quietly, and with no further resistance, he left the governor to his thoughts.
***
“I mean, can you believe that guy?” said Aron, trying very carefully to refill his mug with his shaking hands. “Why don’t they ever come out and say it? There aren’t any rules, we just do what they say. This isn’t a country any more - hell, even a dictatorship has laws. This is... this is...”
“A mess?” suggested Chebon. The amateur musician was currently busy balancing one of his giggling fans on his lap, but he spared a glance to his friend and captain across the bar counter. “You have to learn to relax, man, or one of these days you’ll do something stupid and wake up sans head.”
“Yeah, yeah...” mumbled Aron, despondently. He took another swig of the cheap ale that the local tavern offered.
“Still, it’s not all bad.” John offered “At least this way, there’s less chance of that Azguard making a scene. Less of a chance anyone’ll get hurt.”
“Well... yeah... maybe.” said Aron, as he refilled his drink - spilling some beer when his vision convinced him he was in fact trying to fill two mugs “But it’s not right. Just... just dragging someone out like that. In the night, like we’re ashamed.”
“Are you?” said John, sitting up on his bar stool with distinct interest.
“Huh? Am I what?” Aron’s speech was becoming slurred.
“Are you ashamed about dragging someone out for committing no crime?”
Aron nodded slowly as the world spun “Yeah... yeah... that’s not right. S’not what I signed up fer...”
Slowly, his head nodded forwards, and finally went thump against the counter. John patted the snoring captain on the shoulder, and murmured “I know, none of us did.”
“Hey, should he be sleeping?” said Chebon, as he managed to pull his face away briefly from his (still giggling) fan. “I mean, it’s already nightfall. If he sleeps through the job then-”
“You let your old sergeant worry about that, corporal.” said John “Don’t worry, you don’t become a military man without learning a trick or two about passing the buck. You have a nice night.”
Grinning, Chebon said “Always do.” before turning his attention to the girl on his lap.
John got up, and left Aron to sleep by the candlelight of the bar, while the old sergeant stepped outside into the cool winds of night.
* **
“Nnnn...” Aron’s eyes fluttered open - which he instantly regretted, as harsh daylight blinded him. He groaned, and slowly slid off his barstool. The tavern was empty, which was good, as Aron struggled not to vomit last night’s drinks.
What a way to start the day.
Wait... day?
“Oh hell.” Said Aron, as he stumbled to get off the floor. Maybe there was still time. Maybe it wasn’t as early as he thought. If he could just find John then -
Actually, now that he took a look around... where was everyone? True, most taverns and bars aren’t known for being active in the morning, but even the street outside was quiet as the grave.
Without wasting a moment, Aron shook his disorientation and rushed out the door. He knew in the back of his mind what would be going on, but still hoped against hope that somehow everyone was out to pick up groceries or something. If the Azguard had started another speech, he was as good as dead.
Dashing down cobblestone roads, straightening his uniform, and tightening his belt, he realized he wasn’t even wearing his armour - that was back in the blockhouse. The blockhouse! He’d forgotten to meet the troops there at six! “This is going to be a long day.” he muttered, as he rounded a bend towards the town square.
He rushed under the arch, but to his surprise, found nothing going on. The upturned cart was gone, the crowd hadn’t returned, in fact the square was entirely empty. Aron’s sense of anxiety only deepened. It was starting to feel as if the whole town was deserted.
Aron looked around, and spotted John rushing towards him from the other side of the square. The captain let out a sigh of relief “Perfect timing, sergeant, I was afraid something had gone wrong.”
“Sir! Something has gone wrong!” It was then that Aron noticed John was huffing and puffing under a crested visor, thick metal shoulder guards, and extra chainmail draped all over. He caught up to Aron, only to double over and gasp for breath. “It’s... It’s that Azguard guy. He... *wheeze*... he told the townsfolk to... *gasp* to rise up. Most are barricaded in the town hall after they threw out the governor.”
“They threw him out?!” exclaimed Aron, who grabbed John by the shoulders and yanked him back into a standing position. “John - what did they do with him? Where did the Dunholt go?”
“He’s... *wheeze*... outside the town hall. He ordered our troops to surround it and hasn’t done anything since. I got permission to find you - Aron, we have to do something before this gets out of hand.”
It already was. Aron paled at the thought of what sort of punishment the Dunholt would bring against their town. Remote as it was, the Dunholt were known for letting no act of dissent go, having gone so far as to put whole villages to the sword to leave a clear example to any who would question their ownership of the land.
He grabbed John’s arm, and pulled him up again before dashing off in the direction of the town hall, his heavy boots clopping along the cobblestones and echoing off barricaded homes. The tower top of the town hall was now visible, with a tattered yellow Cairn Camari flag proudly flying. The silence was gradually broken as the sound of footfalls and yelling grew louder, until finally he passed into the street in front of the town hall’s big sycamore doors.
Already, he could see barrels, boxes, and the upturned cart had been arrayed as a crude barricade for the troops of blockhouse 118, which squatted unceremoniously behind the barrier. The townsfolk weren’t shooting arrows, but as he got closer Aron could see people jeering from windows and shaking their fists in the air.
As if it couldn’t get any worse, when he approached, Aron saw the barely restrained figure of Dunholt governor Julius and his retinue standing behind the barricade.
“Ah, excellent work captain.” he said with barely contained sarcasm. “I’m sorry, perhaps I wasn’t clear enough in my instruction. You see, when I said tonight, I assumed you’d know that I meant the night that just recently ended. I thought I was clear, and yet somehow this morning, instead of having that... that insurgent cast at my feet, I was instead evicted from my office by a mob he’d whipped into a frenzy.
“I was lucky - and by extension, so were you - to escape with my life, considering his followers were brandishing axes and pitchforks. What the hell are pitchforks doing in a town, anyways? Aren’t those a farm instrument?”
“They’re... uh...” Aron tried to get a handle on the situation, and steadied himself. “They’re for unloading the wagons at the market, sir. I used to help with that when I-”
“Save me your pathetic life’s story, captain, and help me bring this situation under control immediately. The Dunholt don’t tolerate failure and right now that includes both of us. Get your men sorted on the double.”
“Right you are, sir.” said Aron, who let out a sigh of relief and turned to his troops. “All right, headcount! Are we all here?”
“Everyone, sir, all thirty-five! Even Chebon!” shouted back sergeant Asnabar.
“Good.” John brought over his combat gear footlocker, from which Aron retrieved his gauntlets and pulled them on. “What about weapons? Are we equipped?”
“Clubs and shields, sir.” said John “We’ve also checked for swords - just as a last resort.”
Aron paused as he strapped the shoulder guard in place, and nodded. “A last resort.”
Finally, he was armed and equipped. He turned back to the governor, and said “Your orders, sir?”
“We’re going to bring this rabble under control. An example must be made before it escalates further.” he said firmly. “You have bows and arrows, correct? That town hall is made of wood. Light the arrows and rain fire on it, then block the doors until I say otherwise.”
Aron’s face was passive, as he processed this. Finally, he said “Sir... They’re not even firing at us yet. They’re not even-”
“You will follow your orders, or you will be executed!” shouted the governor, anger spilling over his control. He drew a sword that seemed chiseled from ice and stabbed it into the ground, where frost quickly formed. “I have no patience for you or your kind! This sort of defiance will get us all killed, nevermind the fools in the town hall. Fetch your bows and arrows immediately.”
Aron’s face was pale and stiff as he turned away from the governor and back to his troops. In a subdued tone, he said “John... do we have bows and arrows?”
The outburst had not gone unheard, and every soldier was now glancing sideways and straining an ear to hear over the din of the rioters. John gulped, and said “Aron, you’re not really going-”
“Get the bows, John.”
With a look of disbelief, John wandered away. Aron looked at his feet. He could feel his face turn red with shame as governor Julius stood next to him. “You must understand, captain - anyone who stands against the Dunholt will be destroyed. The only option for us is to be the ones to put down this uprising, to prove we had no part in it. Your soldiers will be spared.”
The only sound was the jeering and chants coming from the town hall. Some of them were clear enough to hear now, as more chanters took them up. “Down with Dunholt!” “Cairn!” and “Guv’ner Julius issa bastid” were popular, although the last one was only chanted by Finneus and his friends.
“Is my Monty out there?” a shrill, female voice cut through the other voices. “If he doesn’t stand down this instant, I’m going to be very upset with him!”
Private Montague groaned. “That’s my mother, sir. Sorry, sir, I’ll try and keep a low profile.”
Think, Aron. There’s got to be a solution - you can’t fire on a building full of your friends and neighbors. On the other hand, if you don’t, the Dunholt will turn up and then everyone’s going to die. He hadn’t tried negotiating with the mob yet - maybe they could be convinced to disperse? He nodded to Asnabar, and straddled the barricade.
“People of Sycamore!” he shouted above their yells, “As captain of the Cairn-Camari Blockhouse 118 unit, I hearby give the order to disperse!” He was going red in the face, this time not from shame, but from the effort to be heard. Someone threw an orange. “Is Mr. Gregario in there with you?!” He added, angrily. Another orange was thrown in response - this one hit his helmet in an embarrassing splat.
“I’m warning you for the last time!” He still didn’t want to shoot them, but was tempted to start throwing the fruit back. “If you don’t disperse, we’ll be forced to take drastic action before the Dunholt get-”
He didn’t even know Mr. Gregario had watermelons. The world went temporarily black.
***
Aron recovered soon after, behind the barricade. So much for that plan. Chebon was squatting to one side, and shook his head as the captain woke up. “Smooth move, sir.” Aron noticed the bow.
“Did we-?”
“No, not yet. John got back with the bows, but managed to stall by ‘forgetting’ the arrows. Julius is pissed, but we’ve still got time.” Chebon glanced over the barricade, and added “After you got hit by the watermelon, the mob got pretty nervous and more or less shut up. I think the Azguard guy calmed them down.”
Aron sat up, and put his helmet back on. Just over a crate, he could see the big rectangular structure with its’ stone tower, the Cairn-Camari flag still flew proudly. The windows were long, dusty affairs that were hard to see through when closed, so he could only guess the mob still occupied the building. Aron sighed, and wished John were near enough to ask for advice. When it came down to it, he wasn’t all that tactical.
“All right... wait... what’s that?” The large double-doors were slowly pushed open from the inside, as a group of the townspeople inside made way for the Azguard preacher. Aron took the chance to get a better look at him than he had the first time on top of the cart.
His skin was grey, and his face was long and angular - where his nose should have been, there were slits. Not only that, but he was easily head and shoulders taller than even the tallest human, although his arms hung past his waist. All in all, he gave the appearance of a gangly, primitive creature, if not for the humble white robe he was wrapped in, and the intricate braids of black hair. The townspeople showed great respect as he left the doorway to the town hall, and descended the steps.
“Now!” shouted Julius “Now! Captain, order your men to seize that monster and storm the building. They won’t be able to close those ridiculous doors in time!”
Thinking fast, Aron said “Everyone knows Azguards have all sorts of weird claws and fangs, plus, the townsfolk outnumber us loads to one. We can wait for the arrows.” This got him a few cold looks from his own troops in earshot, but it seemed to calm Julius, so Aron approached the edge of the barricade.
“What is it you want?” He called out to the Azguard.
He simply bowed, and said “My name is Do’Lash. I have asked for the confidence of the people of Sycamore, and they have obliged me. You do not look like Dunholt yourselves, you seem like people of Cairn-Camari and Sycamore, like these people. Might I ask who you are?”
Julius seemed intent to speak on behalf of the unit, but Aron jumped the barricade to speak to Do’Lash - a move Julius didn’t feel like risking himself. “I’m Aron, captain of the Cairn Camari Blockhouse unit 118.”
“So you are one of the stag people, as well?” Do’Lash pointed to the faded brown stag on Aron’s tabard. “Then why do you threaten your own people?”
“What? Well, why are you endangering my people? If you wanted to whip up a revolt, why come all the way to my country?”
Do’Lash seemed to ignore the question, and instead approached Aron. He could hear the intake of breath behind him, and he involuntarily tensed as the shadow of the grey giant fell on him “Your people do not like the Dunholt, Aron. They do not like the extortion, the beatings, the cruelty, the suppression of culture, and art, and music. They do not like being told how to live and how to think, what to do and who to become. I did not plant the seeds of revolt, I merely nourished their spirits, I spoke about what they already knew.”
“Look, Dolly, or whatever your name is - that’s great and all, people don’t like the Dunholt, but the thing is if the Dunholt army hears about this and deploys a unit, they’re going to be massacred, you get me? We need to put a stop to this right now.”
“Really? Tell me, what are the orders of the inspired tactician, Julian? I imagine his current plan is for you to open fire on us?” Aron’s surprised blink answered Do’Lash, and he continued, “Your people are already facing massacre, either at the hands of their own soldiers, or of their conquerors in a day or two-”
“Wait, then why did you even whip up a riot in the first place?” Aron was starting to lose patience, as well as a growing sense of fear that John might have come back with the arrows. “If you knew the instant it started, it’d be cut down, why-”
“As I said, Aron, I did not plant the seeds of revolt. They can be found all across the continent, in all of the six nations, waiting for someone to awaken them. However, now is not the time to speak of such things. What matters now, captain, is that you have a choice. I see your esteemed sergeant John has returned with the ammunition, which means that Julius will soon give the order to fire.
“You may fear troops coming in a day or two, but right now the choice about wether your people will be slaughtered or not is not in their hands, it is in yours. Choose wisely.”
As he finished, a young woman broke from the group by the doors and dashed to his side - she had light brown hair, braided like the Azguard, and bore an angry expression. Aron didn’t recognize her, but she wore no-nonsense labour clothes, and held a wood axe with worrisome conviction. In fact, as he observed her arrival, she didn’t seem the angry type. Her eyes seemed more curious than wrathful, although they were doing a marvelous job of it now as she gave Aron a glare that broke the spell of the moment. He quickly turned back to Do’Lash.
Do’Lash leaned down so that the newcomer could whisper something in his ear. The giant nodded gently back, and returned his full attention to the captain. “The townsfolk are getting concerned, so we will return to the comparative safety of the town hall. Our fate is in your hands, captain.”
Aron watched the group file back into the town hall, feeling helpless as events continued to move towards an inevitable conclusion. He could hear Julius’s doomsday voice calling him back, “Captain.”
Aron climbed back over the makeshift defences. “Captain, your bumbling sergeant has finally retrieved the ammunition.” Here it comes “Commence firing immediately.”
“No.”
“What? Wh-”
Before he could even finish another word, Aron’s fist connected with Julius’s jaw. It turned out the governor had a glass jaw. In fact, he was entirely breakable, something Aron learned when he rammed his knee into Julius’s stomach and kicked out the man’s legs from under him. In a collapsed heap on the ground, the governor wisely chose to stop moving. Or expired. Instantly, his retinue of assistants and minor guards fled as fast as they could out of town, leaving the Cairn Camari soldiers to look around uneasily.
Gradually, Aron became aware of the cheering behind him. He turned, to see the people of Sycamore turning out happily. The chants resumed with renewed enthusiasm, and eventually the soldiers caught on too, joining the throngs. In fact, the only ones who didn’t seem overjoyed were Aron and John - and, Aron soon noticed, Do’Lash, who seemed to just be watching things unfold.
“So...” said John “I guess we didn’t have any other choice. Wasn’t like we were going to fire on the townsfolk, right?”
Aron hesitated for a moment “Yeah...” He glanced at Do’Lash, before turning back to John. “Let’s leave everyone at it for a while. You, me, and the big grey dope over there are going to have to decide what to do next.”
As Aron, John, and Do’Lash slipped away from the crowd, private Clyde grinned widely and said “Who’da thought the captain would just have to smack that guy in the face, and we’d be free?”
Private Alice, who was nearby, shifted through the crowd and said “Of course not, ignoramus. The Dunholt will be back, they’ve just been temporarily expelled.”
“Oh.” said Clyde, who brightened up and said “Well, when they come back, the captain could thrown them out again, right?”
“O’course he can.” said Corporal Scott, beaming with pride and hanging his hands from his belt. “The captain’s gotter have brass balls to take on Julius, I’d like ta see the Dunholt that could bring ‘im down.”
“Maybe...” said Alice, who turned pensive. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
The soldiers and townsfolk continued to celebrate their newfound independence by tearing down signs and images of the Dunholt occupation, while Aron, John, and Do’Lash sat about a table in the town hall’s lobby.
“Okay.” spat Aron “Your little social experiment’s worked so far, Do’Lash, so tell me - now that you’ve won us over, what’s your next brilliant strategy? You know, the one that deflects the whole army of the Dunholt with just my thirty five soldiers?” Aron looked up, and saw that the woman with the Azguardian braids in her hair had joined them. “What is she doing here?”
Do’Lash smiled “I’m sorry, captain, I should bring you up to speed. This is Leanna, a student of philosophy and worldly ways who has assisted me thus far in organizing the townsfolk. Her popularity with the people has made her their unofficial representative here.”
Leanna gave Aron a distrustful look, but she took a seat at the table. Do’Lash gave the group a nod and rolled a map across the table. It showed the entire Cairn-Camari mountain range, with every valley marked out clearly and all sorts of notation on various points, “In my travels, I’ve learnt much of the layout of this land. There is in fact a Dunholt outpost nearby, where several hundred soldiers are used to police the surrounding region, including your town. Should they be put out of commission, the nearest force the Dunholt army could deploy is the army of general Showitz, a native Cairn-Camarian commanding a native army. I believe he can be turned.
“The only thing we need worry about, then, is the destruction of the Dunholt outpost’s forces before Showitz arrives. If we prove our mettle, he is a man of patriotism and is thus unlikely to order his soldiers to destroy us.”
“The story checks out, sir.” said John to Aron. “Showitz was a good general during the wars, and loyal as anything. You’d never see him lift a sword to his own. As for the Dunholt, I’ve never heard of them sending a whole army this far south, so it’s probably true the outpost is all they’ve got around here.”
“All right, so assuming we somehow totally destroy the army many times our size, and convince a total stranger to join us in this crazy rebellion, then what?”
Do’Lash smiled again, and said “One step at a time, captain. How to actually defend Sycamore, however, is not my forte - for that, a military mind is needed, such as yourself. If it can be done, however, then we may be able to cast the Dunholt out of Cairn Camari.”
“The townspeople aren’t totally defenseless.” interjected Leanna. “We didn’t run away when Julius threatened to shoot at the town hall.”
“Yeah, but they also ran and hid when I got knocked over by a watermelon.” retorted Aron.
“I didn’t.” said Leanna, and there was a hint of spite in her voice. Aron was about to talk back when John put his hand firmly on Aron’s shoulder.
“No need for this so early on, lad.” said John. “We’re all going to have to work together if we’re going to protect Sycamore - there’s four main ways into town that need to be guarded, and we’ll need somewhere to hide none-combatants. Let’s focus on that for now, okay?”
Aron fumed, but kept his mouth shut. He glanced at Do’Lash, and said “I’ll see what I can do about organizing some defenses. You better know what you’re doing, grey man.” before storming out. Leanna did shortly after.
Once they left, John took a seat nearer to Do’Lash and sighed. “Those two are already off to a bad start. This is going to be harder than I thought, did Finneus find that package?”
“Yes, thank you.” said the Azguard, as he poured over the map. “It contains all my notes. I don’t need it any more, but I want you to hold on to it.”
John seemed surprised. “Me? Why me?”
“As an added insurance. We Azguards have a saying ‘You are borne with two eyes, two arms, and two minds. Nature knows that it is best to have a spare of everything.’ Hold on to it for me.”
John gulped, and said “All right. I better go help Aron, he tends to get depressed when he’s angry and we need him to focus.”
Do’Lash simply nodded, as the sergeant left. The map was covered in markers, with tiny handwriting next to each. Delicately, he rubbed out a small black mark next to Sycamore, and put a clear circle in its’ place. To him, it was like an artist’s masterpiece.
***
“To me? Well, to me it looks like a big ole’ pile of boxes,” Said private Chris.
“That’s because it is,” replied private Spencer “Barricades are basically big piles of boxes and junk. You stay behind them and try to keep the enemy on the other side. It’s pretty basic, really.”
“Oh, I get that, sure,” Chris squatted behind a stack of boxes, and squinted over them. “Just... I figured we’d be gettin’ something better’n some wood crates to defend.” Chris was tall and thin, so that he looked kind of like a cylinder when he wore his armor. He also had a long, pointed face that gave him the appearance of a flag pole sans flag.
Spencer, on the other hand, was the eternal athlete - clean of limb and upright of posture, he had his hair cut exactly to military regulation and was one of the few soldiers whose tabard had been carefully preserved to its’ original yellow and brown. The two of them patrolled the narrow strip of road around the north gate, where crates and other detritus was collecting to form a crude wall. An elderly lady struggled to put a spice rack on top of the barricade, but Spencer quickly explained to her that they were doing just fine as it was.
The two went back to their small patrol. After a minute, Chris said “So explain it to me again, what’re we doing?”
Spencer sighed, and shook his head. “You never listen, do you?”
“I listen, it’s just the cap’n uses a lotta fancy language like per-meter, that I don’t get.”
“The word is perimeter. The plan is for us to form a defensive perimeter around the town’s gates, and keep the Dunholt out.”
Chris looked around, and said “We’ve got a lot of gates, though, and there’s only thirty five of us, cap’n included.”
“Well, I guess the realm of high strategy is for officers. Troopers like us just need to follow orders - and put more crates on the barricade. You’re right, it’s looking a bit low - hey!”
Spencer dashed off as Finneus and a gang of local kids ran with one of the crates lifted over their heads. They were soon away, however, leaving Spencer shouting angrily after them “My lunch is in there, you thieving kids!”
Chris laughed, and patted his fellow soldier on the back “Come on, let’s go find some more stuff to put on the barricade.”
***
Aron stood on the town gate, looking out at the grassy knolls of the valley that ended abruptly at the jagged mountains in the distance. The sycamore trees were like a little leafy ocean that swayed with a wind Aron couldn’t feel. He watched the swift little river rush from one end of a rock wall to the other, as he had when he was a small boy. It all seemed so far away now, as below him the gates were being fortified for invasion.
“You think we should send someone to warn the old pensioners at the mountain path?”
John, who was standing nearby, shook his head. “I should imagine they were in on the whole thing - old soldiers like them, they get all the news going in and out of town. They’ll find a safe place to hole up until it’s all over.”
There was a lull in the conversation as they watched a falcon fly low across the valley before lifting off again. Aron weighed his words caref
