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Monarch - Whitefall XXII
🕑 Added 2023-02-22 22:25:30 +0000 UTCArmor doesn’t make the soldier. Strapping a scholar, butcher, or brigand into a breastplate doesn’t do much to change the appearance of the man within. They’ll present as a better armored albeit potentially wealthier version of their previous selves.
Alten, though? From the moment the servants finished adjusting his ornate silver sheathing and stepped away, he looked complete. As if they finally returned a part of him that had always been missing.
“Heavy,” Alten grunted, winding his shoulder back, getting a sense for his range of motion. “Hard to imagine how men fight, weighed down like this.”
The armor master let out an affronted scoff. He’d been pretending to busy himself with organization, casting concerned glances our way every time we so much as moved. Alten’s sharp eyes followed him as the man crossed behind me once more.
“Who put the bee in his bonnet?” Alten asked.
I smiled apologetically. “Unfortunately, you’ll find Castle Whitefall overrun with nobles poised to balk at the smallest slight, and such reactions magnified when one they consider unworthy exceeds their station.”
“Especially that one.” Cephur was posted up against the far wall, arms crossed. He shot an irritated look at the hovering armor master. As before, the ranger-turned-commander didn’t seem pleased with this turn of events, but his reticence had softened somewhat after Alten’s history came to light. “Took a good year before he stopped treating me like a backwoods ranger.”
“Right.” Alten said. His face betrayed nothing, but he shifted uncomfortably in place.
Cephur strode over and studied Alten’s breastplate, and after asking permission, gave it a firm shake. Then stepped backward with an approving nod. “Still, he’s bein’ a little extra. Probably on account of the history of this armor our noble scion picked out for you.”
“What’s the significance of the armor?” Alten looked between us.
“Heard of the Silver Swords?” I scanned the armory until I found what I was looking for. The gargantuan display case stood out, among all the workman-like racks and barrels, and a threw it open, perusing the contents as I spoke.
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well, no tremendous surprise there.” I nodded, “They carry out their duties competing for glory and treasure in the far reaches of the wilds. Their ranks consist of the strongest fighters Whitefall offers, and the audacity of their exploits are second only to the king’s.”
“Hard men.” Cephur added. “Loyal, but hard and valuable as diamonds. It’s not uncommon for a member of the silver swords to see more action in their first deployment than most soldiers see over their entire lives.”
Alten looked visibly uncomfortable for the first time. “I do not wish to steal another warrior’s honor.”
I spotted something promising on the top shelf and twisted back to look at Alten. “Tell me if my intuition is correct. You prefer something light, but not too light. One-handed with enough length to the hilt to add a second, should the situation require it. Something sharp as a shaving razor but strong and wide enough to stop a claymore.”
“I—yes.” Alten cocked his head, his expression puzzled.
After a few awkward attempts to reach, I gave up and dragged a stool over to the cabinet, stepping up and tentatively removing the sword from the shelf.
Cephur hissed, his eyes wide, but said nothing.
I unsheathed it and took a second to marvel at the craftsmanship of the blade. The hilt—black and segmented for grip—felt ancient to the touch, and while the blade’s sheen had grown dull from lack of care, it emanated power. It wasn’t magical in the traditional sense, but the countless battles it endured left it with a cold and timeless aura. The blood groove that ran its center was well used, and there was a strange, uniform splotching to the material that ran down the edges and disappeared before they reached the central line.
Befitting the sword, its name—Fade—was deceptively ordinary. But it referred to the eventual death of the pantheon coinciding with Ragnarok—when, in legend, all realms would meet their end. There was a certain poetry to it that appealed to me, the idea of using a sword that represented the end of all things to wage war against that very end.
My father first showed it to me when I was barely into my early teenage years, and like any child would, I asked when I would be allowed to wield it.
“It is a soldier’s blade, boy. Not a King’s.”
I’d thought this another one of his arbitrary distinctions, one made for no other reason than to deny me something I wanted. But now, I understood what that meant.
I shoved the sword back in its hilt and tossed it to Alten. He unsheathed it and carefully took a few test swings, then smiled, surprised. “I’ve never held its like.”
“It’s yours.” I said.
Alten’s smile vanished.
If the Armor Master was displeased before, now he was openly scowling. At the rate his disposition was plummeting, inevitably, word of this would carry. He was likely to join the ever-growing line of pearl-clutching informants queued outside my father’s rooms in the morning.
But in this matter, I had complete trust in his ability to identify a worthy warrior.
I rested my hands on Alten’s shoulders. “Your role as my honor guard will not be an easy one. It will be fraught with danger. The enemies we face are many, some obvious, some hidden. I would not hold it against you if you rethought your decision.”
Alten’s mouth thinned, and he shook his head.
“Then do not think of this as stolen honor. Think of this as a promise of the honor you have yet to attain.”
He seemed to accept that, though from the grim set of his mouth and the way he squared his shoulders, he didn’t take it lightly. It wasn’t what I’d had in mind, exactly. Returning the armor and weapons once denied him was a symbolic gesture, and I hadn’t imagined—being a foreigner—he’d take a local accolade so seriously.
There was a clatter in the hallway—nothing alarming, likely a servant who dropped something going about their business—but Alten and Cephur both snapped to attention. While Alten’s hand immediately went to his sword, Cephur’s reaction was more muted, his face betraying a casual cautiousness that only came with experience.
“Going to check the perimeter,” Alten murmured.
We both watched him go.
“Welp. Wasn’t sure how he was gonna work out, but even I gotta say. The boot fits.” Cephur straightened and stretched, then checked to make sure the arms master was out of earshot. “Sure you don’t want a few more men to round out your detail? Little caution never hurt anyone.”
I shook my head. “No. There’s a reason my father’s guard always follows him from a distance. It projects the illusion of strength.”
“Illusion my ass.” Cephur gave me a dead stare. “There’s no aspect of it he can’t back up.”
I pressed on, ignoring the comment. “It’s logical for a monarch to have ample protection. Same for a prince, or any figure of authority. Most Koss matches would be significantly shorter if players led with their kings.”
Cephur snorted.
“Problem is, much as I’d like to surround myself with protection, people will always compare the two of us. My father and I. It doesn’t matter how many backup plans he has, or contingencies, or knives in the shadows. What matters is the image. And if I ensconce myself with protection, while the king swaggers around, practically baring his neck, it doesn’t matter how logical it is. I’ll look like a coward.”
It happened before, after all. Constant gossip about the errant, irresponsible drunken prince who couldn’t go anywhere without an armed escort. How tragic it was that such a strong bloodline yielded such a weak heir.
The rumors bothered me to no end, largely because they were right.
“So.” Cephur cocked his head. “Your solution to that issue is to find the baddest, meanest bastard in Whitefall, strap him in the armor of some equally mean-bastards, full knowing word will spread when he makes quick work of the first poor idiot who takes issue in the physical sense.”
“Pretty much.”
“And you’ve had this plan in mind for how long?”
“A while now.”
“Pretty good for something you came up with when you were, what, twelve?” Cephur chuckled. “That being said, soon as a few of the silver swords pop back into the city for a little R&R, things are gonna get real awkward around here.”
That was something I hadn’t considered. I scratched at the stubble on my cheek, concern growing. “Honor duels?”
“To start—” Cephur trailed off as Alten returned. He almost looked irritated at finding nothing, rather than relieved.
“Someone was skulking about,” Alten growled. “I’m sure of it.”
Cephur and I shared a look.
“Come.” I gestured to them both. “We have dark deeds to attend.”
/////
The banquet had reached a fever pitch in our absence. Royal musicians played at a permanent thunderous timbre to be heard over the shouting, laughter, and raucous conversations held by many too drunk to remember them by morning. King Gil still held fast to his throne, taking in the festivities from his elevated position, but the slight stoop to his shoulders told me he’d been drinking as much as anyone.
Beside him, my mother was still alive. Perhaps that seems unnecessary to note, but I couldn’t help but check every few minutes, just to ensure she hadn’t disappeared in the interim. Every time she caught me looking, her stoic court demeanor would melt and she’d raise two fingers in a subtle wave of acknowledgement.
It surprised me that Maya seemed more popular now than she had at the beginning of the evening. A coterie of noble ladies surrounded her, including Melody, and while her smiles and polite chuckles carried an artificial air, the sharp tinkling noise of genuine laughter rang out more than once. Annette lingered at the fringes of the group, and I watched as Maya expertly drew her into conversation. Several noble ladies followed suit, and Annette seemed dazzled by the attention, though not displeased.
This is going too well.
I shook my head and tamped down on the voice, approaching Alten with at tray of food. The poor man’s head hadn’t stopped swiveling back and forth from the moment we stepped into the banquet hall.
“It’s a party, Alten. Try to relax.” I took a place beside him.
“Never was much for parties.” Alten said, barely sparing me a glance. His eyes lingered on the food on the tray for only a second before his focus returned to the room, specifically towards the table that housed my father’s banner lords. All four heads of houses were clustered together, sharing drink, their grim dispositions and suspicious glances giving the table a disquieting air.
“My father’s bannerlords Though… it’s uncommon for them to share company this way. They usually keep to their own Houses.”
“All due respect, my lord—”
“Cairn. No need for titles.”
Alten inclined his head. “If they were looking at you the way they’re staring down your father, we’d be in for a much more stressful night.”
“Thankfully, they’re not.” I poked the tray against the chest of his armor with a resounding clink.
Alten looked down, and his expression grew dark. “What?”
“It’s food.”
He set his mouth. “I meant, what shall I do with it? Hold it for you?”
“I’m guessing the meals served in your previous accommodations were less than satisfactory.”
“You want me to eat it.”
Elphion. It was like pulling teeth.
“Elder gods. It’s not an order. I don’t expect it of you. If you want it, take it. If not, I’ll find some lout in need of balancing out the drink in his belly.”
“No.” Alten said quickly, then hesitated. “Shouldn’t I be the one bringing you food?” The gravel in his voice betrayed how much he hated that idea.
“You’re a guard, not a servant.”
He licked his lips subconsciously, reached out to grab the tray and froze there, eyes flicking back and forth as if mentally calculating something. “How am I meant to defend you if my hands are full?”
I rolled my eyes. Never in my life had I seen a hungry man go to such lengths to avoid eating. “If we’re attacked, I’ll do my very best to hold them off until you can make ready.”
“As you wish.” Alten said, finally accepting this with a grave nod. He never stopped looking though, scanning the crowd even as he hefted a leg of lamb and devoured it until the bone itself was all that remained. Methodically, he cleared the tray until there was nothing left, his still-alert eyes glazing over with a sated expression.
Out of the corner of my eye a figure rose on the dais at the head of the room. My mother stood, gently removing her arm from the servant that supported her and approached the front. Slowly, the excited voices and caterwauling of men deep in their cups faded to nothing. It always impressed me how easily she commanded the nobility’s attention.
“Speech!” A man bellowed drunkenly. I looked over in time to see one of his fellows cuff him on the back of the head.
Elaria shot the two a mockingly stern expression, then returned her focus to the room at large. With an even smile, she spoke.
Comments
Stephan Brown
Are we getting any more or is this on pause?
John Brady Anderson
“I shoved the sword back in its hilt and tossed it to Alten. He unsheathed” I think it should be “shoved the sword back in its scabbard”
Lloyd
A sword with a segmented grip is for mainly two handed use according to historical sources (Lichtenauer, etc.).
