A medieval historical fiction set in the northern region of the Archenian continent, where two rival peoples - the Arches and the Securi, descendants of elves - face off in a struggle of power and survival for control of the duchy of Burgundy. The h...
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It was a morning of thick, gray skies in the Bastuncarte fortress on September 9th, year 67 After Unification. In the distance of the great wall, which disappeared from sight until the mountains from east to west and closed the path to the north, a small fleet emerged on the horizon - two flags adorned with an albatross, symbol of the Gemeces house, fluttered in the autumn wind on their lances.
The knight in command, already well known in those parts, was called Ser Tannes de Aquila, a man of imposing bearing, broad shoulders and an erect posture. His hair was short, a dark brown, already beginning to show silver threads. His eyes, severe and malicious, of a penetrating black, cold and calculating, always attentive to what was happening around him, even when he was not particularly angry. His nose, somewhat aquiline, accentuated his aristocratic profile. He wore polished steel plate armor adorned with the coat of arms of his house, a smaller albatross, a constant reminder of his loyalty to the richest family in the Archenian Empire. At his waist, he carried a long sword, the scabbard worked with silver details, and at his side a dagger, always within reach.
Watching the coming movement closely, the guardians could not contain their whispers that this was not a good sign, wondering and speculating among themselves what it was about - the lord of House Gemeces did not have a good reputation among the Securians.
"I demand to speak with Cerices of Bastuncarte, Duke of Burgundy. I bring a message from the Duke of Magiora, Maximus Gemeces, Lord of the Waters to the West and protector of Calã." The leader of the group announced as soon as he was approached at the great gates, his voice firm and clear. He held out a sealed parchment with the albatross coat of arms.
The captain of the guard, Ser Boris MacBorb, a man with a stern face, a round nose and numerous scars, stepped forward, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Your people have no right to make demands on these lands." He spat on the ground. The confrontation drew laughter from his other companions and discontent from the visitors.
"I understand your objections. One day we can settle our differences in an arena. For now, I come only as a messenger." Tannes replied irritably.
"May I ask what this is about?" The man's voice was usually hoarse, and when he was angry, it got worse.
The visitor quickly retorted, firm in the position he would only reveal in the presence of the duke. The guards at the great gate hesitated a little, protesting among themselves, "We cannot let an albatross in. We do not like your people!" And one, Ser Sandor Dunradh, growled with malice in his voice:
"Let them in. And I hope they offend us so we have an excuse to stab them!" He laughed, his laugh harsh, almost a growl, infecting his companions, who laughed along, though with obvious nervousness. Ser Sandor was the type to joke about such things, a braggart, without fear of danger or consequences. He took pleasure in provocation as much as in violence. His small, shrewd eyes seemed always on the lookout for a fight. He was an athletic man, about thirty-three years old, with the build of a bull, muscular arms that made his mail seem too tight, good-looking, with a thin red beard and short hair - he was the dream of many a young lady, despite being considered a scoundrel.
