A Field For Wolves

Chapter 2

The wind struck back against the tent. The harsh battering of the air flapped above as it pushed against the fabric. Mordred lifted his head to the sound as a breath of warm air left his lips with a cloud of fog. The weather was acting strange today. Cold and chilly in places where the sun broke upon the land in yellow rays the dark and damp areas filled with heat. He shook his mind of the thought and discarded them as he turned his attention back to his camp. The clustered tents and hundreds of men stacked together in close ranks. The sound of distant chatter and shuffling amongst armour and weapons filled the camp. Mordered leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh as he looked to the guard at his side. He turned his head to look at the other and narrowed his eyes for a moment.

He looked into his tent and found his sword resting against the table on its side. The broadsword he claimed from his father by right of force. A decorated image of slaughter it was. The sword. Nothing seemed more immediate, more direct, more obvious. He stood from his chair and walked over to the weapon before he attached it back to his hip.

“Father!” a familiar voice called to him.

Mordred turned and saw Rhodri approach him. His son stood as tall as himself with the same black hair he styled when his youth still held him. Many would even mistake them for twins if not for Mordred’s aged face.

“Yes, Rhodri?” Mordred spoke firmly. “Did the scouts find something?”

“Baron Carlow has returned. His forces were routed but he still retains his numbers.”

“Routed? By whom?” Mordred frowned.

“He has not explained yet. He is seeing to his men first,” Rhodri replied.

“Bring him here,” Mordred growled. “Reports are to be given first before anything, Rhodri.”

“Y-Yes, father,” he replied.

Mordred dismissed him and returned to his seat. A sigh left his lips as he watched his son depart in a jog. The king processed the situation at hand and reworked his plan. Traveling this far to put down the Kingdom of Verrex was a chore that he expected to conclude by the end of the month. A rabid land of warmongering kings.

Baron Carlow soon arrived at the tent with a distressed face dampened by sweat and dirt. Mordred nearly scoffed aloud in retort. The Baron straightened himself and held his breath before his king.

“Lord Carlow,” he began.

“Your Grace.”

“You were routed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Explain,” Mordred sighed. He noticed his son awaiting the meeting with an eager look behind the Baron.

“We faced off against the Prince of Verrex by Serrin. It seemed like we would capture him, but a second army ambushed our own. A few hundred from what I could tell. They attacked our flanks. I attempted to stave them off by having our cavalry meet them in battle, but their men were stern. A lone soldier seemed to single-handedly hold off all the knights. He cut through their armour as they were crops. The men were losing heart, so I wished not to sacrifice too many to capture the Prince. We damaged their forces enough and took much of the land already. Serrin has burned down, but their capital is in sight,” Carlow held his breath once again as he lifted his gaze to avoid Mordred’s words.

“Hmm … Disappointing, but not disgraceful. A single man slaughtered all your knights? Is that right?” Mordred asked.

“Not all, but a good many. M-Much like your own exploits, Your Grace,” Carlow replied with a gulp.

“Much like my own? I have slain the great Arthur, conquered the Mountain Kings, beheaded the Eagle of the great Dystarius Dunes. No army has failed in battle with me as its commander nor have any defeated me in combat. This lone warrior has done nothing like my own. I have achieved things none can ever do again. There will never be an Arthur, nor a Rykar, nor a Faur Maaridth. Foreign names that will forever stay foreign. This warrior is the subject of mad barbarians. The ones who fill these lands. That is what you will tell your men. That is what you will tell everyone,” Mordred sighed.