Lucius

Carnage at the Bridges

Part I

(The color of frozen dirt & blood)

The snow reached so high after they came off the mountain trail, it swallowed Stormbolt to his ears and the blanket covered horse pulled back scared, vapors shooting out of its nostrils and backtracked, leading with its hind legs.

“Whoa!” Lucius commanded holding its reins firm. “Easy boy.”

“Gotta pull to the side!” Roderick yelled and pointed with a gloved hand. “Reach ‘em slopes.”

Lucius sat up on his saddle to see better and nodded. Roderick raised his hand and waved to the men following them single file.

“Down. We’ll lead the animals further up!”

“We expect us to climb?” Faustus complained. His face covered with snow, eyebrows white and thick with it.

“Just do as yer bloody told!” Roderick barked. “Galio one of your guys takes the mules.”

“Kaeso!” Galio boomed twice as loud and Lucius looked worried at the cliffs surrounding them. “Ye heard the man!”

“Fuck’s sake sergeant!”

“Don’t give me no bloody lip boy!”

Lucius climbed down shaking his head and led Stormbolt to the side of the path slowly, the snow reaching his chest. The terrain turned rougher, but the slope held less snow and he managed to pull the horse out of the path.

They walked the rest of the way. It took them three hours to reach Stag’s Doab, the edge of the flat-land forested area between the two smaller legs of Ludriver.

Lucius breathed hard through the cloth wrapped around his face, skin wet and cold. The weather had turned for the worst, after the heavy snowfalls of the previous weeks. The temperature lowered even more and the icy winds blasting from the North, had turned the packed snow harder and made everything crunchy and dangerous underfoot.

“Is that a warcamp?” Roderick asked, squinting his hurting eyes. Lucius nodded, black smoke rising from the sparse woods covering the snow covered terrain to their north. Not as much soft snow here though, he thought, stabbing his boot hard down to test it. He turned his head to the other side, looked up the slowly rising slopes leading towards Eaglesnest. Smoke from many fires blackening the sky that way as well. Another warcamp, almost as large.

“You think that’s the Crulls?” He asked of the latter, slapping his gloved hands to increase circulation, the pain on his leg flaring up.

“Aye. Wanna head that way?” Roderick replied, skin turned almost black where the cold had ravaged his wrinkled face.

A man came out of the snowed foliage to their left, before he’d time to answer him, a long spear in his hands. Tall, but thin and haggard looking, leather armour hidden under a heavy coat.

“Who goes there?” The Black Skulls warrior inquired.

“That’s Sir Lucius Alden,” Roderick snapped. “Fuck are you?”

“Brim Solomon, milord,” The man replied, taken aback by the reprimand.

“Were you at Kas?” Lucius asked, looking at the bushes moving behind the warrior, indicating more men were present.

“No, milord. I wasn’t. We guarded the path, per Captain Morris orders.”

“How many men?” Lucius probed.

“Less than forty. But some of the main group returned,” Brim replied eagerly.

“Some?” That was Roderick.

“Around eighty, but I could be mistaken. Lots of wounded.”

Lucius stared at the men that had appeared now, rising from behind their cover.

“Anyone else willing to speak?” He asked authoritatively.

A middle aged, mail clad warrior stepped forward, pushing aside a couple of weathered warriors. He’d a Black Skull sawn to the right side of his coat, kept open at the front despite the cold, perhaps to more easily reach for his sword.

“Sir Lucius. I’m honored to meet the Heir to Regia in the flesh,” The Lorian said, a faint Northern accent to his voice, but the rest of it marking him as being born in Lesia. He approached and tended a hand. “Name’s Baker Morris. Ye have my gratitude for helping us at Kas.”

Lucius grimaced at the needless tribute, but shook his hand. “You’re welcomed Mr. Morris. What were you doing in Kas?”

“We were trying to reach the ridge, circle around the mountains. Make it to Northwatch Fort,” He crooked his mouth. “Then return to Lord Vanzon’s lands via a safer route.”

“You’re pretty far from there still,” Lucius noticed.

“Aye. O’ Dargan brought half the North over those bridges,” Morris explained. “That’s him in ‘em woods.”

“The Jarl is here?” Lucius asked, a little surprised.

“That old dog? Nah. That’s ‘Gangly’ Steven’s banner right there, his firstborn,” The mercenary Captain started coughing hard, almost doubling over and Lucius cast a side glance towards Roderick. “Apologies,” Morris said, when he came around, seeming worse for wear. “We’re almost two months on the road.”

“Why don’t you head out, towards Eaglesnest? That’s the Crulls right there, behind you; not a kilometer away is my guess.”

“We did, milord,” Morris explained, voice turning hoarse. “Sir Hein sent us right back out to support his men. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Lucius stared about them.

“He has men on the flanks.”

“I ain’t particular in the finer details, milord,” Morris replied. “Even if I was, we ain’t in a position to refuse them. Not if we want to reach Krakenhall.”

Ah, there’s that of course, Lucius thought, testing the ground again with his boot. Much better terrain this, he decided.

“I was with a man,” He started, watching the mercenary closely. “Dirk Curd. We lost him in the snowstorms. I hoped, he would make it here, at the very least.”

“Devious Dirk?” Morris grimaced. “Aye, he traveled through here, about a week back. I’d thought that vulture dead, but there’s no killing him, I suppose. Lads told me, he was heading for Krakenhall as well. Ye’ll be better served to talk with the Crulls for more though. And perhaps consider turning back, milord.” He stared at the darkening sky, the smoke clouds of the opposing warcamps blocking the sun, the moment the wind had stopped. “There might be some reckonin’ here, ye’ll want to avoid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris, for the words and the advice. I wish you fortune,” Lucius said and jumped deftly on the saddle, the pain on his leg grating. He kept it off his face though, a stubborn clench of his jaw the only indication.

“May Luthos guide ye as well, Sir Lucius,” The man replied, sounding sincere and even a little moved. “Through all ‘em pending struggles.”

The Crulls warcamp was a sprawling mess of tents and haphazardly thrown together defenses, huge firepits burning dry and wet wood logs alike, the smoke burning your eyes and the air thick and difficult to breathe. A warrior carrying twin axes on his back stopped them before entering, the approach from the mountain paths, almost completely unguarded. Or so it appeared. There were at least three thousand men packed around those fires, Lucius noticed, as the man led them to the biggest tent, the ground under their feet cleared and black. Hard as rock.

“Stay with our horses,” Lucius ordered Galio and the man nodded, eyes nervously scanning the many armed men watching them parade through their camp, all curious.

Lucius pushed aside the hide opening, the smell of sweat and leather strong, when he walked inside with Roderick in tow, the sudden burst of warmth coming from the two braziers, placed on the side walls of the tent, thwarting. He removed the covering from his face and loosened his heavy coat’s bindings, under the eyes of the three men present. Mixed bloods, skin raging from black to grey, hair a blend of red and white. Eyes a washed out blue for all of them.

Two of the men wearing plate armor on their chests, chainmail underneath. The three-headed eagle prominently painted on them. The third, an older man, wore plain leather armour, hardened and iron rivet reinforced, had his white hair reaching his shoulders, much as the other two. He was the only one sitting behind a nicely crafted mahogany table. The brightly red lacquered furniture at odds with the adjacent atmosphere inside the large tent.

“He’s armed,” The taller of the two spat, red hair over a black-skinned Issir face. The other man, grey-skin and white hair on a younger face moved to intercept him, when Lucius decided to approach the men.

“Stay back!” Roderick barked, over his shoulder. “Else I cut ye down boy!”

The mixed-blood Issir, not a surprise since the Crulls had been intermarrying with the Northmen for almost two centuries, clenched his jaw in anger.

“It’s alright Hein,” The older man said, heavy accent marking him more a Northman, than an Issir, despite the color of his skin. “See the coat of arms on him? That’s a knight of Regia.”

“That’s Sir Lucius Alden,” Roderick grunted, still eyeing the younger man. “Heir to the Kingdom of Regia. King Alistair’s firstborn.”

He went overboard there, Lucius thought and pressed a smile on his lips, barely forming it. His beard now fully grown and rich, covering half his face.

“Well, then…” The older said looking around. “I’m afraid ye catch us, unprepared, Lord Alden.” He smacked his lips, nodded to the younger man to fetch a couple of goblets and a bottle of wine from a chest and created some room on that fine table, pushing some of the maps and reports aside. “The hot-blooded one is Sir Hein, Lord Alden,” He explained, signing for them to approach him. “The tall one, is Sir Reggy, my firstborn,” He tended a firm hand over the table. “I’m Lord Bart Crull. I’ve fought alongside yer father,” Lord Bart glanced at Hein returning with the bottle and added. “Sir Hein, dueled wit yer brother in Riverdor and lost.”

The young knight offered a filled goblet. “Beat me fair and square,” He said, as Lucius tasted the strong wine to hide his emotions. “A great fighter. I’m sorry for yer loss, milord.”

“Appreciate the kind words, Sir Hein,” Lucius managed to say, the memory of his late brother, the last thing he wanted haunting him with so much on the line. But he couldn’t just push everything away. This wasn’t how things worked in real life. Lord Bart seeing his discomfort grimaced.

“Yer father is well, I take it?” He asked, an obvious attempt to steer the conversation away.

“King Alistair, is as sturdy as ever,” Lucius said, breathing out.

“Pleased to hear it,” A small smile on the old lord’s face. “Tell him I sent him my regards, next ye see him.”

“I shall do that, Lord Bart.”

The Lord of Eaglesnest, stared at the crude maps in front of him for a moment, deep in thought. “Now, Lord Alden. I can’t really offer much in the field, but should you continue to Eaglesnest, there will be quarters for you and yer men.”

“I’m not here sightseeing, I’m afraid, Lord Bart,” Lucius corrected him, keeping his tone even. “I’m looking for a man, named Dirk Curd. You might know him, as Devious Dirk.”

He caught the stare exchanged between the old lord and Sir Reggy and stood back. Roderick behind him, shifted his weight from one foot to the other in tensed silence.

“Ah, Devious Dirk,” Lord Bart said, thumb rapping on the table’s surface. “Is it about the girl?”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. “She’s here, Zofia.”

Lord Bart snorted, another look exchanged between him and the frowning knight.

“O’ Dargan’s spawn is a prisoner, Lord Alden.”

What? Lucius thought surprised. He quickly run through his mind all the possible routes available to him, before replying.

“I was tasked with escorting her, back to her father,” He started, voice clear and steady, not to betray his nervousness. “My father wanted to negotiate a deal with Fetya.”

“I’m sure he did,” Lord Bart replied. “And it is a noble assignment, for a knight—”

“Curd took her from my camp using a ruse, Lord Bart,” Lucius interrupted him. “I formally request, the girl to be released to my care.”

“However,” Lord Bart continued, disregarding his words. “I’ve already struck a deal for her, I’m afraid.”

Lucius blinked.

“Curd couldn’t negotiate—”

“But he did, Lord Alden,” Lord Bart cut him off abruptly, lips pressed tight. “He struck a deal wit me. I need the girl.”

“Regia wants her returned immediately,” Lucius replied sternly, his blood boiling.

“I AM AT WAR!” Lord Bart growled, eyes firing up and smashed his fist on the table knocking one of the goblets down and spilling its contents on the ground. Red on black, Lucius noticed taking a step back. The color of frozen dirt and blood.

“Lucius,” Roderick said on his back, as he desperately tried to calm himself down, clenching and unclenching his own fists. He breathed once, sucking air through the nose and let it all out slowly, under the intense glare of the old lord and his sons.

Find another way, his mind urged him feverishly. Don’t let this devolve into chaos. You’re inside a freaking warcamp!

“What do you need her for?” He chanced.

Lord Bart sat back on his chair surprised.

“Father,” Sir Hein tried to say, plead in his voice, but he stopped him raising a hand.

“There will be an exchange on the morrow, a meeting of sorts before that to iron it out, at the marsh next to Wolvesbane Castle, near the river,” Lord Bart said.

“Is that the Montfoot leg?” Lucius asked.

“We call it the Montfoot Bridge here, Lord Alden. That part. Ye see, everythin’ else, branches, legs and all, from hither to the accursed Abrakas Stone, are parts of the same Grand Ol’ River.”

Ludriver was his meaning, Lucius thought, a shiver running down his spine.

Welcome to the goddamn North.

Old Lord Bart Crull had decided to stop the Northmen’s advance there, the story goes. Provoke a fight, between the Grand Ol’ River’s easternmost branches and push ‘Gangly’ Steven O’ Dargan’s warriors back into its freezing waters. When he saw the Northmen though and their camp, he changed his mind.

For the Jarl had given his firstborn almost six thousand men, (others say five thousand and five hundred) their ranks swollen with warbands responding to his call of freedom and the chance at the heavy plunder sure to follow. At least a couple of thousand more rushed from the nearby forts and burgs to provide for this ‘city on the move’. Those remained on the Northern side, just beyond the Montfoot Bridge, under ‘Twotrees’ McCloud and crossed it every day to carry supplies over to the men and the nearby, still not fully operational, Castle.

Of the main body’s six thousand warriors, ‘Gangly’ Steven had sent a thousand of them to guard his right flank out west, under Logan ‘Gray’ Barret and maintain control of the Midriver Bridge. Another five hundred, or a thousand, were send to Wolvesbane Castle to keep it under Fetya’s control and to guard in turn the Montfoot Bridge further in the East. Those were as well, even though split by the river, part of Twotrees McCloud’s command.

It was a convoluted plan, what Lord Bart had set out to do; hotly disputed till this very day, almost twenty years later. The details vague, those involved either exonerated from history, or painted the most despicable of villains. In retrospect nobody won that day, as much as they had lost.

-

Lord Sirio Veturius

Circa 206 NC

The Fall of Heroes

Chapter III

(Lucius the Third,

Northern Campaigns,

Battle of the Bridges,

Either late 3rd or early 4rth

Month of Winter, 189 NC)