Alfred - The Morning Ride

Alfred II : The Morning Ride


Spring had poured its full glamour upon the land, leaves brimming with vibrant greens, crisp water spilling its way through streams as it raced to the Jear, the great river that split the southern half of the continent in twain. It seemed the perfect day for a morning ride, sun gleaming at him and his companion, evading the clouds with uncanny skill, drifting across the azure sky, guiding the pair eastwards along the shallow hills of Nystdale as they plodded along through farmer's tracks and pebbled roads. They came to a small field, sighting a horse grazing on the rejuvenated grass.


"That's us, eh, Alf? Horses, adventurers, carving a path out for ourselves in the plains." remarked Paethric, his newfound friend.


"Yea, that's us, and I'd rather it stay that way. The horse never fights himself, but rather rides alongside the bull, being his aide in battle. I hope that's all we are." Alfred replied, once more expressing his desire to shy away from battle. That's Aesch's job, all I need to do is keep our forces in check and ensure the influx of supply.


"I second that, best to keep our necks away from northern axes, eh?" he affirmed.


Alfred smiled. It hadn't been since Alystair was a hostage at father's court that he had a true friend, and yet in a matter of days he and Paethric had bonded, a durable steel chain linking their spirits. They had met when father called his barons to warmoot, and were introduced to each other by their respective fathers, realising that they were a suitable fit for each other, and that they were. They played kings and generals, pouring hours into delicate manoeuvres and offensives, finding a deadlock most of the time. They even discussed mathematics, the sciences, and poetry, something rarely taught to a Mournish child, and yet Paethric had just as much knowledge and insight in such a regard as he. It was like a match made in heaven, and the two had spent most of their waking hours during the last few days with each other, now seeing fit to go riding. I have at least one thing to thank the northerners for, after all, if it weren't for them I would've never met him.


Paethric was the youngest son of four belonging to Saulle Harris, brother to Baron Ulisch of Tarrenport. His father was a respectable scion of his house and loyal servant to his brother, well-known for his exploits at sea when he was but a boy, leading a portion of the Haeler fleet to victory at Harakna, where he captured the village and five northern ships with but three of his own. Thankfully, due to his status as youngest son, Paethric was largely free from the lofty expectations imposed on his elder due to their renowned father, and so had been free to pursue a life influenced more by scholarship and the arts than warfare. He could wield a hammer, of course, just like Alfred, but only to an elementary level. And why would we need to be skilled at the art of war? I shan't ever lead an army and nor shall he, let alone from the front, riding with the hammers in the vanguard.


Alfred turned to his left look at his companion, who seemed completely lost in the motion of the world around them. The sun twinkled in his deep brown eyes and swam through his flowing, chestnut hair, setting him alight like a beaming candle, bringing hope in a dark world. He was dressed respectably, in a white linen undershirt with a burgundy doublet and grey silken scarf, wearing finely-cut leather riding boots, as befitted a noble. He looks like a prince, trotting along to save some maiden fair. Alfred drifted over to him, tapping him on the shoulder.


"Where exactly are we going, Pat?" he asked, suddenly having come to his senses and realising that he hadn't a clue where they were going or how to get back, other than by angling with the sun and hazarding a guess. Paethric had allowed Aeschin to know, as he was eager to make sure he knew where the pair would be in case they ran into trouble, but had thus far refused to share his plans.


"Fine, Alf, I'll tell you. I heard about this small fishing village, near Parmyst, it sports a nice beach with these white cliffs overlooking it. I want to have a look, and sit atop them, we can see if we can spot the different banners on warships arriving at the capital. Maybe we can even spot some hopeful mercenary bands on their way over, who knows?" he confessed.


"Why didn't you tell me before? That sounds enthralling!" said Alfred.


"I wanted it to be a surprise, to see the wonder on your face would've been half the experience." he claimed. Alfred couldn't help but feel slightly flustered. It seems like we've been friends for years.


The two continued to plod along, a sense of comfort and appreciation in the air, as they continued in their escape. It had been a necessary one, since over the past few days, despite their time together, they had oftimes been dragged by their fathers to warmoots, and Alf had even been coerced into coming to a council meeting with the rest of the lords and the King, enduring the bitter discord between his father and Lord Harald, and the desperate attempts of the other lords to take up some of the King's time for themselves, or to dispel the aura of anger. Lord Hasten Danisch, the young Lord of the Westmark, in particular, had even come up to him and attempted to convince him to talk father into standing down as Supreme Margrave, desiring for the King to bestow the position upon his nephew, who had been dragged along on campaign on the behest of Sir Raley in order to gain some experience. It's a stupid plan: putting the army in the hands of him would leave the King responsible to deal with the whole force, after all he would need to guide his nephew's hand while having no deputy to aid him. Then again, these schemers are becoming alarmingly desperate to gain some shred of power, with His Grace in mortal danger.


It was endless bickering, endless intrigue, and the pair were perfectly content with ditching it all for a day, aware that due to some tedious logistical issues the army would be stuck for a few days where it was now, in Chapham, somewhere south of Onnasgrove. The area itself was dotted with minor farms and mills, with its shallow hills somewhat preventing the mass growth of grain, and thus rendering the area full of cattle, swine, and oxen. A pleasant place and farmer's dream, though the Plainlands are truly heaven for him with the swathes of fertile soil and its veins brimming with water. Aeschin would never cease to be enraged by the simple idea that a bloodfoe of their house could hold lands so rich and populous. As father used to say: our lot is always greater, if we can learn to harness it and tend to our people. It would be challenging to turn the Golden Refuge into a more populous or more fertile land, mayhap impossible, but the mountains were brimming with more gold, copper, iron, and zinc than the lords of Haeler had ever known what to do with, and Tarrenport provided a perfect hub to export those metals from. Sometimes it surprises me that father was the first man to start those exports on a grand scale, though even he could admit that he doesn't extract nearly as much ore as he could.


The two trotted along onto a pebbled road, seeking to find a bridge which they could use to cross the Jear, their main obstacle. It was on that road that they suddenly sighted a rider in mail with a surcoat above, dressed in the brown and mauve colours of House Phillby, bearing a short spear and kite shield with an arrow lodged into it, frantically spurring his horse onward. "Out of the way! Danger!" he screamed. "Move, sirs!" he reiterated as they obliged and guided their steeds off of the road, watching nervously as the man's horse slammed its hooves against the road, beating its way westwards with an alarming haste.


"I'd imagine some poachers ambushed him." suggested Paethric. "As long as we stay clear from the forests we should be alright. Now, the bridge is up ahead, let's head onward, unless you want to turn around?"


He didn't know what to think. We're both armed, but just with shortswords. We can't fend off poachers, but as he said, as long as we stay away and don't threaten them, we'll be fine. I suppose it's worth the risk, too, to get away from the chaos at the camp. "Alright then, Pat, let's cross that bridge."


"I knew you'd want to, friend." Paethric responded with a faint, familiar smile as he continued along the road. "Come on then, Alfred, race you there!" he said with a grin, spurring his horse toward the river.


"That's a big mistake!" he japed back, gripping the reins and kicking his mount into a full gallop, thundering onwards as he slowly began to close the distance between the two, helped by the comparative youthfulness and vigour of his own stallion. The two laughed all the way, weaving back and forth along the road as Paethric tried to block him from taking the lead, until Alfred managed to turn sharply to the right, swing around, and shoot in front of his friend. "How the swordpoint shifts my friend!" he exclaimed, racing forward and climbing up a small hill, reaching the brow as he saw the sail of a modest sailing vessel, painted charcoal black, a common sign of pirates.


"Bugger." he whispered, holding his fist up beside his head to signal Paethric to halt.


His friend came to a stop beside him. "By the gods! What would raiders be doing here?"


Alfred shook his head. "I'm not sure, but it screams danger. No doubt they're using the river to reach inland, the Jear has countless noble estates by its banks. I should wonder who they are though." he pondered.


"Ah, northmen, you can tell by the sharpness of the stern. It's a subtle detail, but the hulls of northern ships tend to be more jagged, or pointed, whereas the hulls of southern ships are smooth, or curved. We should dismount and take a closer look." he suggested.


"Are you insane? We could be captured, or killed!" It is intriguing though.


"Come on, Alf, we can learn more about the enemy. Knowledge is invaluable, you know that more than most."


"I suppose you're right." Alfred allowed. As long as we keep our distance, we'll be fine.


They dismounted and walked their horses over to the edge of a wood, where they entered and crouched down behind a fallen tree, peering down at the river, which was only thirty feet or so away. Sure enough, they were northmen, speaking in a foreign, harsh tongue.


"Can you understand them?" Alfred asked. Paethric was a member of the mercantile House Harris, borne by wealthy merchants; as such every member of the house was strongly encouraged to learn the ways of commerce and mingle with the commoners at the markets of Tarrenport where enterprising northmen often used to come to sell their furs or ivory. Hopefully he picked up some of their language.


"Yea, I speak a bit of Vhorarnr - the northern tongue. I picked up the odd scrap from merchants in Tarrenport." Paethric answered.


As I suspected. "Well then, what are they saying? Can you hear them clearly?" he asked impatiently.


"It's hard to tell: I know how to haggle, and how to discuss trade routes, but I can't really understand talk of raids. I'll try though." he replied hesitantly. "They speak about the sun - they're trying to figure out in which direction their target is."


"And what is their target?"


"I'm not sure. They speak about a kardr, or hcardr, something like that, which I think is a farm. However, I don't see why they would sail around a continent to raid a farm." He shrugged. "They might be talking about a knight's estate. It would be an easy target, as long as they're aware of the notable absence of almost every single knight from his respective estate. Otherwise, only an imbecile would attempt to assault one; I count eleven of them, and a noble's retinue would probably number a few more, better armed and most likely mounted."


"What else?" Alfred asked anxiously.


"They've been here for a few minutes, and still can't figure it out, so they're going to spread out to find the northbound road." He paused for a moment, and suddenly looked distraught. "Gods! Two of them are coming our way!" Sure enough, two of them turned around and headed almost directly toward them, no doubt looking for the road that the two had just left.


"We should run." suggested Alfred, impulsively. We're not exactly well-hidden, and who knows what they'll do if they find us.


"No, they look much more athletic than you or me, and would either beat us to our horses, or cut us down before we mounted, we need to wait."


"You make a good point. Get down!"


The two lay down behind the tree, thorns and brambles tearing apart their clothes and digging into their cheeks, as they listened to the crunch of the leaves, the northmen slowly approaching. It was agonising, every second seemed to last an hour, as the two wondered whether or not they'd die today. We should have run, then at least we'd stand a chance. Finally he heard the footsteps draw to a halt, as one of the men shouted.


"Bugger! Alfred, stand up with me. We'll fight them off!" yelled Paethric as he shot up and drew his blade, holding it out before him, clutching onto it as he was his hope, waving it about wildly in an attempt to ward the two away as he screamed at them in the northern tongue. Alfred clambered up and reached for his sword, drawing it from his scabbard and holding it beside his hip, watching as Paethric edged forward. "Come on Alfred, up and at 'em!" he screamed as he lunged forward, only to have his sword batted to the side by the bigger man of the two, who chuckled in a rough, gruff voice while the other man slowly approached Alfred. He tried to attack, raising his sword over his right shoulder and swinging down, but the man deftly caught the strike with his shield, grabbing him by the shoulder and throwing him down beside Paethric, disarming him.


The two now sat there, disarmed and ashamed, as the northmen seemingly made a joke at their expense, chuckling amongst themselves. He listened in as Paethric spoke to them in the nigh incomprehensible tongue. Thankfully, the men seemed to respect him for speaking their language, though were suitably irritated by his accent, requiring him to repeat himself a few times. Nonetheless, the three slowly seemed to reach an agreement, and the bigger of the two men gave an order in his gruff voice, before grabbing Paethric and motioning for the other man to grab Alfred. Here we go on another grand adventure. At least we're not dead. The man's grip was tight, as he grabbed his arms and held them behind his back, kicking his heels as he walked onward, either because he was clumsy, or because he wanted him to speed up. Alfred shuffled a bit faster, just to be safe.


The two were brought to a tall, robust man, draped with furs and with a sharp pointed beard. A battle-born. His hand was clasped around the head of a huge two-pronged battleaxe, which he balanced upright against the ground. The man was old, covered with battle scars and with a blind eye that seemed to have been slashed by a sword of southron design. Only a Mournish or Anomedian blade could make a cut so precise: he either fought for Ghalla, or got himself on the wrong side of a battle between some rich clansmen. I'd rather the latter, or otherwise he may well want us dead, if he knows who we are. He sized them up, and asked a question to his men, and listened intently to their response before speaking to Paethric for a moment.


"You are luck." he said in a thick northern accent, making firm and understandable gestures, eager to make his point clear. "I speak a small Mournish." Huh, well it's something, at least.


"That's excellent, my good man. What would you have of us?" asked Alfred.


"We come take food and gold from lord. We do not care of you. But I hear from your friend that you are lord, so you take you, hcin yron jordbaenr haelden. How you say that in Mournish?"


"To be held for ransom, I believe." said Paethric.


"Yes, yes, for ran...som. Now, we take you on boat. We chain you so you do not run, yes." Bloody hell, at least we're not dead.


The two were taken onto the boat and chained to the mast by the northerners as the other men who had spread out across the vicinity of the boat returned, speaking to their leader. Hours seemed to pass by as the two kicked about a stone they found on the ship and engaged in smalltalk while the northmen drifted about the boat, slowly arming themselves as they enjoyed the warmth of the southern spring sun. The northmen finally decided to leave to go on their raid, fully armoured in hides and furs, forming up in a loose formation, until they froze. What's going on?


The sound of hooves had suddenly leapt into the air, as a cloud of dust began to appear around eighty feet away. The northmen quickly formed a shieldwall and began to shout incomprehensibly, evident panic in their voices. A host of Mournish riders suddenly appeared on the hill from which Alfred and Paethric had arrived, and raced down toward the bank of the river. Alfred spotted the banner of his house, and about a score of men, all hammer-wielding knights. The cavalry's here, thank the gods! It took mere seconds for the knights to charge down the hill, swinging their hammers and crushing the shields and skulls of the northmen. A few survived the initial charge, but were quickly run down while their leader backed towards the ship. One knight locked eyes with him, spurred his horse onward, and slammed his hammer against the northman's axe, splintering the wood in twain before heaving his hammer above his head and letting it crash down against the man's skull, utterly shattering it and leaving the man a broken mess, with bits of his brain glued to the knight's hammer.


The knight, laughing in triumph, wiped the gore off of his hammer and dismounted, signalling for his men to board the boat and take anything of worth, and to bind the one man who had somehow survived the charge. He walked over to the two and slammed his hammer against the chains holding them, breaking them in an instant. He removed his helm and grinned at them. "I did suggest taking a bodyguard!"


"Aeschin!" Thank the gods, it's a miracle that he forced Paethric to tell him where we were going. But how did he know we were in trouble? "How did you know we were captured?"


"I believe you saw a scout on the road here, that was one of my men, Aethelstaun. He rode right into the northmen and raced back to camp to tell me where they were." said Aeschin. "Now, let's get you back to father. I haven't even told him what happened yet, he'll be mortified!" he laughed.


"I'm sure he will." The whole realm will be mortified: a northern ship in our own territory? The King won't know what to do, poor soul. Alfred gazed off into the horizon, wondering how His Grace would be able to protect a land so vast against a possible horde of raiders, when he struggled to even protect himself against his vassals. He saw a black figure atop a horse, far off in the distance, riding along a hilltop towards them, bearing what seemed to be a banner. That knight is late, not that it matters with our current progress. I wonder if we'll ever be able to pull together a coherent response. Surely this attack will persuade the lords to organise themselves? Only the gods know.