A Call to War: C03S02

By the time he returned to the manor, Marcus found that it had taken new life. The halls of Jerno’s manor were filled with members and ministers of the County Court. The Knight’s Hall was not much better. Scores of knights had apparently been called to the capital for some reason. Marcus assumed it was the prelude to war being called in the south. He pushed his way through the crowds getting back to the door to his billet before spotting anyone. Taemis’s hand landed on his shoulder as he ducked in.

“Sir Marcus, where have you been?” he asked, his voice quiet and low.

“A Cleric demanded tasks of me,” the young knight replied.

“Damn it, brother. War has been called in the Southplains.”

Marcus nodded. “I gathered as much, Sir Taemis.” He looked around the hall to all the knights assembled. “I take it that the proclamation has yet to be read.”

“Aye,” Taemis said, looking over the crowd. “Kyrl and I have already reported to the Lord Count. You received special commendation and recognition for your valor.” He looked back to his junior. “I wish things had fared better, but that is the way of things. Now, prepare yourself, Sir Marcus. Lord Count Jerno said that he will call for us to assemble in the rear courtyard within the hour.”

Taemis took his hand from Marcus’s shoulder; and watched as the younger man entered the small room and shut the door behind him. Once inside, Marcus began to shake, not to an extreme degree but very noticeable. He didn’t know how to fight a war, and, while he had romanticized it, the thought of crossing blades with the bestial Asageth filled him with fear. He had no choice in the matter, though. He reached under the bed and grabbed his gear bag, tapping Thomlin with his foot as he moved.

Thomlin, who had still be asleep on the floor, was roused. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Master Marcus, what is the time?” he asked while yawning.

“It’s past midday. The Order of Elibe has assembled, for the most part. The Lord Count will be calling for us to march to Surisholn soon.” Marcus spoke as he rifled through the bag, searching for something. At last, he found it, a battered journal. He placed it on the desk, then looked to Thomlin. “When you leave this room, remember your place, Thomlin. Speak only when addressed, and look none of the knights in the eye.” He turned back to the journal and grabbed the quill from the inkwell on the desk. He wrote quickly, then slammed the journal shut and went back to the door, grabbing his belt and sword as he went.

Outside, chaos reigned. Groups had formed, laughing and joking to ease the tension all of the knights surely felt. Marcus spotted his objective, a meek man moving from billet to billet checking on the state of the men. “Servant!” Marcus shouted, his voice just lower than the dull roar of the room. The man looked up, his thin mustache twitching. He moved through the crowd and presented himself to Marcus.

“May I help you, Master Knight?” he asked, his voice as unassuming as he.

“Servant, have the dispatches to the towns of the county left yet?” Marcus asked.

“Not yet, sir. They are waiting for word from the emissary of the Lord Baron to issue the order.” He gestured to the crowd. “Honestly, I don’t know why everyone is milling about here. The order has not been given yet.”

Marcus held out the journal to him. “Take this to the courier riding on Delrin. Tell him that he is to give it to my wife, Lady Elsbet rin Marcus,” he said as the chamberlain took the journal from his hand. “It must go with the dispatch. Now, go.”

“Aye, sir,” the chamberlain said with a bow. He stepped back into the crowd and disappeared. Marcus hoped that it would reach Elsbet safely, but there was no way to ensure it. He vented his frustration by looking for Taemis in the crowd. He would probably end up in the elder knight’s unit along with Kyrl, he knew. Spotting him leaning against the far wall, he weaved his way through the group, giving terse apologies as he bumped into people.

Reaching the old knight, Marcus, out of breath, leaned on the wall next to him. Taemis had been watching him as he gave the journal to the chamberlain. “Letter to your wife, Sir Marcus?” he asked, his eyes affixed to the door.

“Aye, Sir Taemis,” Marcus said. “An apology for failing to return within two weeks. And a memento, should I fall.”

Taemis broke his gaze from the large door, turning his head to look at his junior. “Fear not, brother. I doubt we will serve in the worst area of fighting.” He forced a smile for Marcus. “With luck, we will be sent to Colisholn or Mysholn instead of Surisholn. And, barring that, I will ensure that you return to your bride.”

“Thank you, Sir Taemis,” Marcus started. Before he could continue, though, the door was thrown open. Royal guards entered the room and it fell silent. Marcus looked from them to Taemis. “Is an emissary from the Lord Prince here?”

Taemis opened his mouth to answer, but he fell silent as a man, no more than a year older than Marcus and dressed in clothes far finer than most of the county gentry had ever seen, stepped into the large room. He carried himself regally, his long brown hair tied back with a silver lace. “Emissary hell. That’s Lord Prince Tirion Nols,” he whispered. A brief pause filled the room, an inaudible gasp spreading from knight to knight. Taemis dropped to one knee, the first in the room to do so. Marcus followed suit, then the rest of the crowd.

Something terrible was afoot, Marcus knew. The Lord Prince rarely visited his Counts; and never the knights of his Counts. He raised both hands before him, silencing even the breathing of the men it seemed. Marcus could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He looked on, nothing in the world seeming more important at the moment. Tirion opened his mouth. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, his voice piercing each of the men. “I have come to give you dreadful news. News that could change our kingdom as we know it.” He looked through the crowd not stopping on any one face. “We are at war.”