The war of the twelve realms - Book 1 - Of squires and scholars

Chapter 7 - Fyn

Chapter 7

Fyn rode at the head of the marching column of men, just behind Sir Arvas, his squires and Venerant Hollin. As a captain of the rangers, along with his newly promoted cousin Grein and an old ranger called Haemas, who was said to be able to move so quietly that even a cat couldn’t hear him coming through a bed of pine needles and could shoot almost as well as Grein, though not as fancily. Behind them were the hundred and forty men that had survived the ranging, along with all of their baggage and supplies; a marching column that stretched back for half a kilometre when all of the men, horses, tents and the small number of wagons were taken into account.

Grein was smiling happily as he rode along, his bow and arrows shaking on his back as he rode up and down. Rolling his eyes, Fyn shook his head and looked forward. Tryssen was riding ahead of him, still not comfortable on a horse, it would seem. He was stiff backed and Fyn knew that he would be hurting more at the end of the day than if he just relaxed, but the lad was used to ships, not horses.

 His clothes were the smallest that had been available in the camp, hastily re-dyed and adjusted, but they were still too big on him and his hauberk was so folded up that it looked as if Tryssen had rolls of fat instead of being all but skin and bone. Tryssen was now able to speak the common tongue much better, even though had had only been learning for a month.

Grein suddenly called out, “Permission to sing a rousing song, sir?”

“Oh, gods.” murmured Fyn as Sir Arvas gave his consent.

“There was big bald lion, hiding in his lair,

And all the valley creatures could not help but stare,

At the big bald lion, with skin instead of hair.” began Grein, and soon all the men were joining in,

“The deer wet their smallclothes,

And elk succumbed to throes,

Of laughter at the lion, who had no fur or clothes!

“Then old wise crow hopped close, and whispered in his ear,

Of ways to get his fur back, but they were all so queer,

That lion ran back further, thinking it a jeer.

Yet the old crow, he followed and took lion wing to paw,

‘You’ll follow my advice,’ he said, with the black crow caw,

The lion hearkened crow’s advice, but instead of fur would soon get sore.”

And so the song went on, more and more bizarre until it came to the climax of the lion running rampant and trying to kill the old crow that was making a fool of him, but instead falling into a mud bog and rising as a huge crow himself, and flew away to cause more mischief. The song was based on an old legend of the gods, and of the origins of the Old Crow god; Karkh; who was said to spread mischief wherever he went, seeking the crow that had scorned him in the first days.  

Fyn stopped listening at that point though, and, seeing that the men were not likely to fall out of rank if he dropped behind, so he slowed down and rode to the back of the train. The ten prisoners were marching there. Hands bound, but feet free they shambled along. Some held their heads high, still proud and full of bravado, whilst others hung low and seemed to shuffle just ahead of the guards’ spearbutts.  

Sir Arvas had decided that the captives of the skirmish on Dragon’s Eye Cliffs were to be taken back to the Castle in the Valley, as Lord Fullarch’s keep was known to the common folk. There they would face the King’s justice, dealt by the Lord, who was known to be merciful to the common soldiers who only followed orders. Fyn did not agree with him on that point. It wasn’t under orders that men serving House Tharos torched my village, slaughtered my friends and family, and raped my mother, sister, and wife before slitting their throats and leaving them to choke on their own blood. For all I know, one of these men was among them.

The thoughts were twisting in his gut now, roiling and building. His hand crept towards his sword hilt as his eyes scanned them, some still oblivious to the world around, others thinking they were safe for now, and one gazing back at him with unreasonable mirth in his eyes and a slight lift of right cheek, as if Fyn was amusing him. Him first, thought Fyn as a sudden rage took him and he quickly grasped the hilt of his sword and started to pull it out of its sheath. A small hand touched his wrist. Fyn could have easily ignored it, but the rage had passed, and he looked down into the eyes of the seven year old Kavallan who was looking up at him, hand on the older man’s wrist.

“Why?” asked Tryssen, the innocent inquisitiveness of a child still in his voice. He’ll lose that soon enough.

“Never mind, Trys. Go back to Sir Arvas and I’ll follow behind shortly,” he said gently; the fury and rage at men he had never seen before was gone. As Fyn looked started to trot back up the lines after Trys, he glanced back. The mirthful man was smiling a wider smile now - a knowing smile - and looking at him. The man winked, and then carried on walking normally, head straight.

Fyn turned his head and trotted away as fast as he could without seeming hasty. I will know what that man knows, with or without my lord’s leave. The Castle in the Valley was only a few days’ walk for the column now, and then Fyn would be able to rest, eat, train, and find answers.

They made camp that night in the forest, but didn’t bother setting out the tents, because they would be on the march at first light and Sir Arvas didn’t want all the hassle of breaking camp. “The furs we sleep in normally will be sufficient, I think” he had said, so the furs were rolled out and the men slept ready to march towards home. As Fyn lay on his pile, he thought happily about the fact that he would be home soon, and with the war nearly done, it might be a permanent thing this time.  Those were the last things he thought that night, before sleep took him.