Chapter 1203: Setting wrong to rights(1)

Aron leaned easily in his saddle, his weight shifting as his horse snorted with his usual wet breath. The beast moved with a sluggish grace through a sea of hostile eyes.It clealry felt uncomfortable as it rode beneath his legs.

Behind them, the walls of Malshut rose like a grey scar against the indifferent blue of the sky. A thin, lonely ribbon of smoke spiraled up from the city’s heart, but Aron’s focus was forward. He didn’t flinch when he heard the heavy, final thud of the wooden gates sealing shut behind them, effectively locking his small party inside the belly of the enemy camp.

Unbothered, he adjusted his mantle. High above on the walls of Malshut, the Falcon of Yarzat snapped in the breeze. Three months ago, the men in this camp had pointed at that banner and made bets on how quickly they would pluck its feathers; they had laughed over their ale at the thought of the Prince’s legions’s fame ending with them.

No one was laughing now. Least of all this band of treacherous bastards.

While the world’s eyes had been glued to the Bastion as they obvious key to the war outcome, this front had been a stalemate of purposeful neglect, there was after all a lack of resources to employ, so what was not needed was left deserted, yet even here, the enemy had failed to gain a single yard of Yarzat soil.

"Oi, soft-tongue," a voice grumbled from the ranks behind him. Aron didn’t bother to turn his head.

"What is it, Ser?"

"We aren’t going to have spears tickling our throats again, are we?" Ser Rodry Longspear muttered. He was one of the few members of the Prince’s Guard who had emerged from the Battle of the Ford looking presentable enough for a diplomatic mission, though "presentable" was a relative term for a man who smelled of horse-sweat and old iron.

The Battle of the Ford.

Aron tasted the name and found it lackluster. Had he been the one to write the chronicles, he would have called it the

Sovereignty of the South

. It had a more poetic ring to it.

"I see a great many swords and axes, Rodry," Aron said, flashing a quick, sharp smile over his shoulder. "But do not fret. None shall be pointed at us today. Last time, they had reason to be prickly; we were naughty children then, weren’t we? We made the Ford happen’’

"You made nothing happen," Rodry said, a pinch of anger in his tone, his hand resting habitually on the pommel of his sword. "It was His Grace who broke them.I played my part, Ser Tham played his, and so did the legions, the Kakunians and the noble’s levies.

You weren’t there to raise a blade, so stick to your ink and your ledgers. Leave the steel to men who know how to bleed. I hear you claim anything of that battle for yourself, and I’ll strike you myself."

Uff. Plucked a chord there.

"But we aren’t in a battle now, are we? So why the long face, Longspear? Has your courage deserted you now?"

"Never. But I did take leave of my wits the day I accepted the Prince’s commission to guard his little spawn," Rodry sighed, the sound echoing in his helm. "Had I known you’d be such a handful, I’d have let the priests stone me back in the capital. A kinder fate, that."

"So you prefer a certain death in the past to a possible danger now? Now that’s a queer thing if there is any’’

"My death back then would have been the price for the sweetest night of my life," Rodry countered, a momentary softness entering his rugged voice. "I knew the danger, but when my nose met the perfume sweet Gilly put on her skirts, her white long finger raising the cloth. Father forgive me , but my wits took flight. I see no such morsels here.Only rotten meat" He glanced back at the heavy, iron-bound chest they were escorting. "And it is not my habit to give gifts to men who want us dead."

Aron shrugged, his gaze returning to the command pavilion looming in the distance. "Man is a creature of habit. Give it time; you’ll get used to anything. Even being a gift-bearer."

"What’s in the chest?"

"A reminder."

Rodry didn’t press further; he knew the man well enough to know that was the only answer he’d get. He stared at the chest, wondering if it was filled with gold. A bribe? The man they were meeting had broken a sacred treaty and invaded their lands without cause. They had just survived a slaughter and had little stomach for more blood, but was that reason enough to beg for peace?

To Rodry, any peace not forged by a sword was an ill-fitting garment.

But the Prince had commanded it, and Rodry was as rebellious as he was pious, so he kept his mouth shut and let his horse trot forward, allowing the hostile glares of the soldiers to wash over him like rain on oil. Every man in his guard had faced angrier stares and sharper steel at the Ford; this posturing was nothing more than the barking of a dog that had already lost its teeth.

The air here smelled different, less of wet wool and pine, more of acrid smoke, sharp spices, and the heavy, musky scent of horses.

They had clearly reached the noble ring and made away of the commoner’s, if the smell was anything to go by.

The tents were low and sweeping, designed to catch the wind rather than shield from the cold, and the men who watched them pass were leaner and their helmet, even for the knights, were all with a closed visor made of rings of mail , that let none of the face be seen.

The party came to a halt before a gargantuan pavilion of deep indigo silk that dominated the center of the clearing. Above it snapped the herald of the Sharjaan: a great, silver-threaded tree, its branches bound by a chain of iron rings that spanned from the leftmost bough to the right.

The herald apparently signified stalwartness and pride, of the two the prince of Sharjaan only had the latter.In abundance , clearly.

At the entrance stood a wall of men-at-arms. Emblazed on their breast the crest of the royal tree.

At their head stood a captain of some sort that raised voice in the mostly silent camp, his voice surprisingly deep and auster for a man with a pudgy nose and a round face.

"Halt!" he commanded, "This is far enough for the guards. Your steel stays here with the dust. Only the envoy may pass next."

’His grace’s man go where they desire and are not told off by anyone. Much less by the likes of you. This is our land. ’

Rodry would have liked to shout, but he instead kept silent, and so did the guardsmen , all of them silently gazed at the back of a certain envoy.He was the one with command over them after all.

There were no protests, no snarled insults, even though the will for that was there. They simply stared through the slits of their helms with the cold, unnerving stillness of men who had seen the worst the world had to offer at the Ford and were just excited to finish off what remained. They had all earned their rest after all.

Aron dismounted with a fluid, effortless grace, his boots hitting the dirt with a soft thud. He didn’t look at the guards; his eyes were fixed on the dark interior of the pavilion as if gazing at some hidden beast inside.

Behind him, two of his guards stepped toward the back of the cart, their heavy gauntlets straining as they gripped the iron handles of the chest.

As they hoisted the box from the bed of the cart, a heavy and full

clink-clack

echoed from within, some of the Sharjaan men at arm naturally took interest in it.

"What’s in it?" one of the younger soldiers asked.

"A gift for your Prince," a Yarzat guards grunted, his knuckles white as he strained under the weight. "Keep your eyes off it, and your hands further still, if you have a mind to keep them."

The Sharjaan’s eyes flared. His steel whispered halfway from its scabbard, the metal kissing the air with a hiss cut down in the middle. "And how would you like to lose yours instead, Yarazat-man?"

Before one of the threat could be made true, a heavy gauntlet landed a ringing clout behind the soldier’s ear. The man stumbled, and the Captain stepped over him,his face showing how he misliked the conversation they were having.

"And how would you like to explain your temper to the Prince?" the Captain growled. The rowdy guard looked down, the fire in his eyes doused. He turned to the Yarzats ’’And I suggest you be more niggard with threats made to my men.We don’t want ti spill no Yarzat blood’’’’

Laughter rippled through the Yarzat ranks in response.

’’Go fuck yourself with a spear, Sharjaan!’’ Someone called from deep in the ranks.Though the deep voice, if Aron’s ears was anything to go by, sounded a lot like that of Rodry.

The Captain paid the shout no mind or at least tried to do so as he turned back to the envoy, his jaw tight. "I suggest your men withdraw to the grounds prepared for them. Far from mine.Very far at that. I’d hate for a misplaced insult to cost a dozen men their lives before the sun sets."

"Gladly," Aron replied, misliking the air around them as much as the Captain, he gave a sharp, double nod, first to the Captain in acknowledgment, and then to Rodry and the men behind him.

Whatever insult they wished to give died in their mouth as they wheeled their horses around, the cart rattling as they led it away toward a patch of open ground on the outskirts of the camp.

Aron stood alone now, save for the two men still holding the iron-bound chest that gained more attention the longer time went. He turned back to the Captain, the thin, polite smile returning to his face.

"Now then, ser," Aron said, stepping toward the indigo silk of the pavilion, the wind ruffling his hair "Make way. The day is short, and I believe a lot has to be settled’’

And on that account, there were much more than anyone , even Aron himself that led the effort , thought there could be.