1The Knights of Mordichan rode through the town of Tarsch on their way to the campaign against the Queen of Faraduen. Travel weary, General D'Avrille pulled his men up short before the local stable. The heat of the late afternoon sun was causing him to sweat under his armor; a thing that rarely happened in the northern climes of Mordichan and yet another drawback of this trek to the south. With a grim and weary eye, he surveyed the small town, knowing it to be the last outpost in Mordichan before they crossed the border into Faraduen. He doubted the town's ability to host even as small a contingent as this one, a mere fifteen men. Sadly, there was no other choice. He swung down from his mount and called to his second in command.
"Meager pickings, Bausch, but the best we have. Let's settle in for the night. Tomorrow we should be off before daybreak."
Captain Bausch made for the local stable to procure boarding for the horses as D'Avrille turned toward the only tavern in town to make arrangements for his men.
The strong aroma of hops and wood smoke assailed his senses as D'Avrille entered the tavern. Though well into the dinner hour, few other patrons were in attendance. D'Avrille noted this with some disappointment, any hopes of a decent meal dying as he passed over the threshold. Two men, shabbily dressed and obviously fresh from the fields, sat at the table nearest the fire, deep in their cups. A portly woman swiped at another table with a filthy rag, wiping more dirt onto the surface than off. And in the back corner, a young lad sat, half covered in shadow and obviously watching the large man enter with some fascination. D'Avrille knew the look, as he had seen it on the faces of many young men in all the small towns they had ridden through for the past two weeks. An awe inspired by the first sight of a Knight of Mordichan in the fearsome black armor of his rank.
A burly man came from the back room behind the bar, and glared in D'Avrille's general direction.
"What kin I get yer?"
"I need room and board for fifteen men for the night."
The man chuffed and his scowl became more of a smirk.
"Ach! An' where yer think yer be? We got nothin' like it 'ere. I got three good rooms. Can put up mos'of 'em if they triple up. The rest'll have t' bunk in them stables."
"That will do. What about rations?"
"Bes' I got is bread and gruel. The ale be good. If yer drink up enough of the ale, the gruel ain't so bad."
D'Avrille's face soured with his stomach, and he had to force himself to throw the small bag of gold on the counter. The man grabbed the bag greedily and his smirk became a gritty, gap toothed grin as he tested the weight in his hand.
"Aye, sir. Thank yer."
Bausch and the rest of the men came in from the stables. The small room became cramped with bodies and oppressive with the tang of sweat and horse. The men stretched their travel weary legs and a symphony of groans and grumbles could be heard as the portly woman and several skinny, dirty children passed bowls of gruel and pints of ale around the room.
D'Avrille and Bausch commandeered a table for themselves, taking some time to discuss their plans for the morning before the fatigue of travel truly set in.
"The hardest press is over, William. We should make the field by mid-morning."
"Aye, Charles."
Bausch watched his old friend's face droop with weariness and trouble.
"Do you still feel wrong about this?"
"Aye."
"Don't worry so much, William. Lord Whitehall is certain our presence is all that is needed to push this war in our favor."
D'Avrille looked at the faces of his men as they choked down the greasy gruel and stale ale. He neither liked nor understood this mission. For five years Lord Whitehall had acted as regent of Mordichan, since the death of the most excellent King Gregor. And in those five years, Whitehall had deferred to D'Avrille in all things military. Having been King Gregor's chief war councilor, and as the commanding General of the fearsome Knights of Mordichan, D'Avrille's grasp of strategy and attack was nothing short of genius. Yet, in this attack against the Queen of Faraduen, Whitehall had seen fit to keep his own council.
D'Avrille could not see the reason in it. And, to add insult to injury, Whitehall had put the Mordichan armies under the command of Captain Lemeaux of the northern division. The man had never seen battle, much less led an army into one.
Whitehall had sought to smooth D'Avrille's ruffled feathers by telling him this small war was not worthy of such greatness as his, and it was a perfect little skirmish for Lemeaux to get his feet wet in. Whitehall did put the Knights on alert, in the event that Lemeaux became overwhelmed. And as of two weeks prior, just such an event happened.
A low groan from Bausch brought D'Avrille to the present. Many of the men had trudged off to bed, and the room was devoid of any local patrons, save the young boy in the corner, who had apparently fallen asleep. Bausch groaned again and rose.
"I'm off to bed, William. You look wretched. Don't stay up all night making eyes at the barkeep's wife."
D'Avrille growled as Bausch clasped his shoulder and left. Seeing there was nothing else that needed attending to, D'Avrille made his way toward his own slumber.
Another hour passed before the barkeep noticed the lad in the corner had finally left. He muttered and cursed as he set about closing the tavern, not hearing the soft clopping of hooves pass by his window as he set about his chores.
"Syd," a harsh whisper came from the brush just off the road. The lithe figure jumped from its mount and led it into the thicket.
"What word do you bring, Syd?"
"Its as we thought, Dougan. The Knights in full force. They aim to be on the field by mid-morning."
"And D'Avrille?"
"Aye, and Bausch as well."
Dougan shook his head at this grim news. This battle was far from over.
A slim hand grasped his shoulder, and he looked up to see a sly smile illuminated by the sparse moonlight.
"Courage, Dougan. It will take more than the likes of D'Avrille to conquer us. Don't I always find a way?"
"Aye, Syd, that you do."
"Then let's be off. We have a long night ahead of us."
Two mounted figures flew through the night, hell bent toward Faraduen and the battle that awaited them on the morn.