My second attempt at a different kind of rider story. The Halberdiers one was too awful to keep in. So I have decided to change tack, and go for a very different tale. A band of loyalists in the war against Galbatorix, and their adventures. Intended to resemble Journey's End. So don't expect swordfights and magic. And if the language is dull, that is intentional. I'm not trying to convey warfare as an exciting experience, but as quite the opposite. The more futile and dull looking the better in my mind.
If I portray the war inaccurately, I must apologise. I just presumed that the Forsworn had some form of mortal army alongside them. I can't imagine twelve men taking on and beating a very large army, and loads of riders, without some kind of support.
The ballistae fired on. They were dwarf made pieces, some of the best constructed the world had ever seen. A shot was fired, the battery officer would bark an order, and another great bolt would be swung into the weapon, a handle would be cranked, and it would be readied to shoot once more. Occasionally, a bolt would be ignited with pitch, so as to ignite the enemy when it struck. But there seemed to be little evidence of damage being done from the bombardment. The rebel camp was still resolutely intact. Some soldiers suspected magic, others jeered at the crews, a few leant back, lamenting upon yet another failure of the Dragon Riders to end Galbatorix's attacks for good.
The ballistae fired on.
A soldier leapt up and shouted, peering through a borrowed telescope. He could see black specks in the distance. Two-no, wait, three of them- and growing steadily larger in his lens. Soon, others were watching, squinting at the grey, cloud filled sky. Soon, the wing beats could be heard, like dull thunder sounding against the great, barren plains.
A space was hastily cleared for the beasts to land in. Soldiers were ordered into lines, and snapped to attention as the dragons glided down. The dragons themselves were large: great, scaled animals, one emerald green and two ruby red. They were, one of the riders noticed, the only dash of colour in the landscape. Everything else was a dull grey- the sky, the land around them, the steel of chain mail and plate armour, the stone of the dwarf artillery. Even the men's' skin, what could be seen of it, looked drawn and pale.
The three riders stepped down from their steeds, and a soldier walked forward to meet them. He was an officer, a Lieutenant judging from his insignia, and looked well built under his armour. The hair was grey, and he had a large, hooked nose. His eyes, although alert, had rings under them, speaking of too many sleepless nights standing watch.
"Greetings, sirs," he said, bowing politely. His voice sounded educated, and somehow oddly laid back."My name is Ostmann- Lieutenant Ostmann of the 33rd Regiment of foot. It is my great honour to-"
"Where," one of the riders asked, removing his helmet to reveal pointed ears, "is Major Bronston?"
"Unfortunately, he is indisposed," Ostmann said, in the same drawl. "And may peace live in your heart -" he paused pointedly.
"I am Lithari," the elf said, not deigning to look down at Ostmann. "I am leaving my apprentice-" he pushed one of the riders forwards- "Ralont, with you, with his dragon, who goes by the name of Sylmentia. They are to aid you in completing the eradication-" the elf savoured the word- "of these rebel… scum."
Ostmann looked up sharply. "You are leaving Ralont with us?" he asked, an odd note entering his voice. "I only mention it because… well, the rebels have been occupying us for quite some time, and…" he lowered his voice- " there are rumours that they have a Forsworn with them."
The elf raised an angled eyebrow. "Have these rumours been confirmed, Lieutenant?"
"They have not been," Ostmann said. "But, for example, our bombardment is being stopped-"
"Foolish bombardiers, that's all!" the elf said, derisively.
"Well, I suppose that it could be that," Ostmann said. "And our last attack-"
"Was driven off and annihilated," the elf finished. "Do you have anything to suggest that it isn't just the enemy being intelligent? There was a fog, or so your reports said, which covered the whole area at the time."
Ostmann nodded. He knew better than to argue with a rider. "In that case, it is most likely some poor man with an ale bottle and a head for stories." Lithari nodded quickly. "And may I ask, sir, exactly where are you going after you leave us here?"
"The business of riders, lieutenant, is no concern of yours." The two senior riders mounted their dragons. "And good luck, by the way," Lithari called down, almost as an afterthought, and the two dragons hurled themselves back into the sky once more, leaving Ralont, the rider of the green dragon, standing alone on the landing area.
There was a silence for a moment, punctured only by the creaks and twangs of the ballistae, and the sounds of birds calling to each other. A wind swept across the plain for a moment, making the men shiver. The dragon- Sylmentia, Ostmann remembered its name was- rumbled oddly.
Ostmann turned to the line of soldiers. "Dismissed," he called. The men obeyed, relieved to get to the relative warmth of the camp fires. He then turned to the rider, who still stood awkwardly at the edge of the clear patch of turf. It was now churned up with deep foot prints.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ralont," Ostmann said, a warm smile crossing his face. He offered his hand. The rider, nervously, shook it. "Now, shall we see your face, then?"
"Oh. Yes. Thanks." Ralont laughed nervously, and pulled off his helmet. It revealed a pale, eager looking face, with a wide mouth and great jug ears. His black hair was tousled after the long flight, and he was perhaps a head shorter than his master. "Well, it's simply… topping to be here, just topping!" He laughed again. He looked young, Ostmann thought to himself. Very young indeed.
"It certainly is," Ostmann said. "Very fine indeed. Would you want to go somewhere warmer?" He indicated his long, winter cape. "It must be awfully cold up there in the clouds."
"No. I'm all right, thanks." Ralont paused for a moment. "And Sylmentia is, too," he went on. "She… she wishes to say that she is just as thrilled to be here as I am."
But not in those exact words, a voice said in Ostmann's head. He looked at the dragon, who seemed to nod her head politely.
"Pleasure to meet you, too," he said, slightly flustered. Ostmann turned and began to walk back to his tent, Ralont running alongside him. "So, my boy," he said, looking down at Ralont, "when did you get brought in? To the Riders, I mean."
"Seven years back," Ralont said, smiling about the memory. "The egg cracked open, I got chosen, and Lifari took me in." He paused for a moment. "It was a bit odd, at first. Elves don't care for us humans much when it comes to apprenticeships and all that. But we got on well after a few years."
"Is this your first assignment, then?" Ostmann asked, curiously, pausing to open the canvas flap of his tent, which contained a large trunk, a bedroll, and a milking stool. Ostmann sat on the trunk, and gestured Ralont on to the stool. Sylmentia poked her head in through the flap and hummed contentedly. This reminded Ostmann of something.
"Oh, good lord no!" Ralont laughed again. "I got taken along with master Lifari- dozens of times, scores! Always another bandit to subdue or a nasty Urgal getting all uppity. We-that is Lithari, Monteria, and Sylie and I, of course- had to tackle a renegade mage once! That got a bit hairy, but Lithari was frightfully clever. What he did, was-"
"I'm sure it was," Ostmann said, "I'm sure it was. But this is your first assignment… alone?"
Ralont paused. "Well, I suppose it is," he said. "Just Sylie and me. And you, of course," he added hastily. Ostmann laughed. "You're awfully good." He reddened at the pompousness of the statement.
"And the men of the 33rd," he added. "I'm not their commander, as such. The men call me Uncle, for some reason associated with my…ahem…comparatively advanced age, but I'm just a lieutenant. We serve under Major Bronston."
Ralont's face, if it was possible, lit up even more. "Bronston?" he asked hopefully.
"You know him, then?" Ostmann said. "He's tall- between you and me, I suppose- dark hair, and currently sports a moustache."
Ralont grinned. "That sounds like old Bronsie! We both came from Kuasta," he explained, looking and sounding slightly embarrassed. "He was such a topping fellow. He was good at all sorts of things! Football, climbing trees, wooing girls, running- he outran a deer, once, just for a joke, you understand. He was just such a good fellow! He was…" he thought for a moment. " an Elvish man, if you get my drift. I was as shocked as anyone when the dragon didn't open for him. We had a banner ready for him and all!"
"I'm sure he was," Ostmann said gently. He thought for a moment. Major Bronston was currently one of the finest leaders the Loyalists had. But now… "But you must understand, Ralont," he continued in the same tone, "that commanding men for as long as he has- seeing them fall in battle, and all that- has put a great strain on him. You may find that he has… changed, somewhat, since you last met."
Ralont nodded. "I'm sure he has," he said, not looking downhearted in the slightest.
There was another uneasy silence. The ballistae fired twice more. A trumpet blew, and men could be heard marching up to their posts. Slowly, Ostmann reached into the trunk and produced a bottle containing an amber liquid. "Brandy?" he asked.
Ralont jumped with the sudden noise. "Oh, no thanks," he said. And then "Bronston wouldn't like me to have it."
How things have changed, Ostmann thought to himself. "He does have quite a temper," he said evasively.
Ralont nodded. "That hasn't changed then. I remember when he gave a few lads half a dozen with a birch tree branch for drinking below twelve years! He was very proper about our health, he was. Oh, I'm sixteen, by the way," he added, before rummaging around and pouring himself a queer, clear liquid out of an ornate crystal bottle.
Ostmann nodded to himself, and poured himself a glass. "Well," he said, raising it, "here's to victory!" The glasses chinked together, and were drunk in one.
Sylmentia's head sharply withdrew from the tent. There was a growl, a cry of "What the blazes!" and the sound of a tray falling to the ground. Ostmann sighed and strode out of the tent, Ralont following excitedly.
The green dragon had pinned two men to the ground, both squirming and trying to force her massive, taloned paw off them. One was short and rotund, sporting a large black moustache on his red face. The other was his opposite- tall, almost gaunt, and judging from the stew spilled on his chest; he had been the one carrying the tray. "Ralont," Ostmann muttered, trying hard not to laugh, "could you perhaps ask Sylmentia to stop assaulting our batallion chef and Lieutenant Walker? They are somewhat disinclined to let that sort of thing happen."
"Oh, yes! I'm sorry about that, chaps," Ralont called, trying to shout over the dragon's roars. "She gets terribly frisky after the flight and all that." He concentrated, and then laughed at something Sylmentia said. The dragon raised the hand, and the two men staggered back to their feet.
"Lord!" the fat one said, dusting himself down. "That gave me a right turn, make no mistake!" He had a decidedly lower class, urban accent. He turned to the thin man. "That's another dinner done with, 'ochrane!"
"It wasn't my fault, sir," the thin man protested. "I didn't know the dragon was there, sir, no sir, not at all! Shall I make another one then, sir?"
"You bleedin' well should!" The fat one noticed the two men watching. "Oh, didn't see you there, Mister Rider. The name's Walker-Lieutenant Walker. And that's Cochrane," he added, pointing at the thin man, "our chef." Cochrane gave two brief "How do you do"s, before scampering off towards the cook tents.
"Hullo, Lieutenant Walker," Ralont said. "I'm Ralont, and this is Sylmentia." He paused for another moment. "She says she's frightfully sorry, but she thought you were assassains."
"The cheek! Still, no harm done." Walker gave a crushing handshake to Ralont, and then turned to Ostmann. "Now, do you have any of that liquor of yours, Uncle? I'm right well parched, and the pay just doesn't stretch these days."
"I'm afraid that I just finished it," Ostmann said apologetically. Walker sighed. "Toasting with Ralont here."
"Ah. Never does to defy a rider, does it? They may have you hanged, and drawn, and quartered, and all sorts!" Walker laughed, and Ralont uncertainly joined in. "Still, best be off. Pickets to see and all that. Cheero!"
It was odd how punctual he now was, Ostmann thought to himself. "Cheerio!" he said. Ralont said the same.
The sun was now beginning to set, but none on the great, bleak plains could see that due to the clouds. The air slowly began to grow colder and darker. Ostmann helped Ralont to pitch his tent, for this wind was beginning to quicken, and then wished him a good night.
The ballistae fired on.