Mount and Blade: Warband

The Kings of Pendor, by Keltiones

Chapter two: The journey east


After disembarking, the young man decided that a long walk would be the best thing for him after so long on such a small ship. He set off, heading first into the middle of the village. As it was too cold this far north to grow crops, the village not as sprawling and expansive as he had expected it to be – fields as far as the eye could see were the norm in the few (admittedly prosperous) villages he had visited back home, but it was clear that this settlement was equipped for nought else but fishing. The buildings that weren't homes acted as warehouses to store goods that they were either exporting or importing, and the most densely built-up area was the docks; sturdy piers constructed from solid timbers of trees which looked twice the size of anything the young man had seen before protruded periodically from the small harbour, giving boats both large and small a place to moor.

After wandering past the central village hall, he asked for directions to where he might find a blacksmith or stables.

"There ain't nothing like that around here, sir. You might try the trade caravans by the warehouses to the east, though – they'll usually part with a mount or a blade, for the right price."

The young man thanked the villager and heeded his advice, seeking out the easternmost reaches of the village where all the bartering was done. Of course, there was very little bartering going on in comparison with what he was used to; sprawling markets and a huge variety of goods, from trinkets from faraway lands to a good leg of lamb, were readily available at almost any time when he was younger, but he would have to make do with what was available to him.

After standing close by and listening in on their conversations for a quarter of an hour or so whilst pretending to survey the limited selection of merchandise, he began to understand how their system of bartering worked, and what a reasonable price might be for what he was looking for. Concluding this as he did, he decided to make an attempt at purchasing the supplies he would need for the coming journey.

No more than an hour later, he had already realized how acutely he lacked any skill when it came to trade. Having spent almost all of his money on an old, skinny saddle horse and a rusty arming sword, he decided to cut his losses and search for a merchant caravan which would take him along as an armed guard. Though he knew little about commerce, he knew plenty about mercenary work – his father had taught him all he knew, from experience both first hand and otherwise.

The most important thing was to make sure that you were in control of the deal; you had to make it clear that they were paying for your services, rather than the other way around. If you didn't request payment, you became a passenger, and therefore had to pay for the protection of the other guards. If you demanded to be paid for your work, you appeared professional and willing to get straight to the point – attributes valued among mercenaries. This was exactly what he did, and it was surprisingly effective. He was paid, albeit scantly, up front and was promised a second payment once they reached their destination safely – the caravan master made it clear that he would receive only a small portion of his payment now, lest he run off without completing any work at all. From what he understood, they were travelling to Ravenstern to sell the smoked fish they had exchanged for other fresh goods, where it would fetch a fine price. He didn't even bother asking about their business, as he understood perfectly well that he wouldn't understand a word of it.

Having secured, as he viewed it, protection, he was content simply to wait for the caravan to start on its way to the capital. Satisfied as he was, the young man used the opportunity to check and re-check all of his equipment, and even spent some time sharpening the rusty sword he had acquired (to little avail). When the time came for him to depart, he felt far more comfortable than he had before; he had familiarised himself with the contents and orientation of the saddlebags, and had a look at some doubtless outdated maps of the realm he had brought with him across the sea. While small, it was these trivial things that made him feel prepared. The knowledge that he was ready for virtually any circumstance, down to the tiniest detail, allowed him to relax – the rest was out of his hands.

Finally, the caravan rolled off out of the fishing village (labelled 'Shapeshte' on his map) and bounced along the thin, pitted dirt track which, in this kingdom, appeared to pass for a road. Unfortunately, what would have made for a merely uncomfortable ride was transformed into a challenge of endurance, to see just how long he was able to stay in the saddle of his ancient, swaybacked saddle horse. Fortunately, on the other hand, they halted fairly frequently for an inventory of their goods, to ensure nothing had been stolen by any travellers they happened to pass – you could never be too careful, admitted a grizzled veteran mercenary; according to him, bandit attacks in the region had shot up in recent years, and while it may seem foolish to make such a slow-moving target for them, it was well worth if they had good enough protection.

"That," he said, pounding his chest with more than a little pride, "is why they hire men like us… They'll pay 'most anything to protect their business assets." He spat out the last two words, as if they were dirt in his mouth. This swift turnaround told him one thing; this was a man who, despite his apparent disgust at traders such as the ones they were travelling with, clearly had to go to whatever ends were necessary to get work. It might be tougher to amass a fortune in this place than he had originally anticipated.

As they had departed late in the day – mid-afternoon, almost – night fell more quickly than the troop would have liked. They continued travelling for an hour or so after sunset, but eventually, reluctantly, decided that it would be best to rest. Darkness fell soon after they pulled over to the side of the track, and the small fires they kindled to ward off the worst of the cold soon grew into roaring blazes, bathing them in a hellish light which could be seen for miles. The abyssal darkness which surrounded the makeshift camp seemed not to budge, however – the fiery domes created by their fires seemed to be the only light source from horizon to horizon; the north of Ravenstern was a hostile place which few ever travelled to.

Realising that, despite his brief spending spree back in Shapeshte, he didn't have a tent, the young man set about finding a place near enough to the fires that he would not freeze, at the very least. The air was bitterly cold and unforgiving, and while he had no desire to sleep on the rock-hard ground, he had no other options, so he concluded that he ought to make the best of it he could.

As he set up his bags and clothing in a makeshift bedroll, a girl approached him – she couldn't have been any older than perhaps 14 and shuffled nervously in such a way that implied she was clearly not comfortable being out in the view of so many people.

"M-my father told me that we have a spare tent that we could, ah, could lend to you tonight. You know, as a, ah, advance payment." Apparently, she was trying very hard to remember exactly what her father had told her, or perhaps recalling a line which she had rehearsed many times before. The young man looked at her quizzically; she gasped slightly and said, even more hurriedly, "My father is the caravan master!"

He nodded slowly and told her to thank her father, before thanking her for passing on the message. She blushed and ran off; trying to conceal a slight, shy smile, she returned back to the largest, most central tent in the camp. A few minutes passed as the young man sat there, unsure of how to proceed, before two of the traders he had seen but not spoken to approached, each holding an end of a large bag. One was a large, bulky man with a black beard and thick eyebrows; the other, smaller man had unusual dark skin which reflected in the fires' light and a bald head, covered partly by a linen scarf. They dropped the bag in front of him, nodded briefly and departed once more.

Again left alone, the youth set about putting up his tent. He had no trouble at all with this; he had, many times, set up such shelter when he was on hunting trips with his father…

He forced himself to stop thinking about the man who had raised him and completed the process of constructing his night's accommodation, beginning to shift his bags inside. As he made the journey back to collect his last few belongings from by the fireside, he glimpsed a figure in the darkness; it was standing, partially hidden behind a tree, just outside of the dome of light which filled and surrounded the camp. Then, just as quickly as the slight figure had appeared, it disappeared, and left the young man alone once again. Shifting uncomfortably, his fingers brushed the hilt of his sword which hung from his left hip for reassurance. The effect was negligible.

Settling down for the night was easier than he thought it would be; it was the first time he had slept on solid ground for weeks, and despite the cold, he was actually fairly comfortable. He still couldn't shake the image of the dark figure from his mind, though, and started at every unusual sound. Cracking twigs and small animals were hardly the worst of it, though – one thing that he had never encountered before was the howl of a wolf. When one sounded, more would undoubtedly follow in a spine-chilling symphony of feral savagery. He slept the whole night with his hand resting on his sword belt, ready for any instance which could occur according to the depths of his overactive imagination.


He awoke in the morning to the sound of song sparrows calling to each other, high up in the trees near to his tent. He rose from sleep swiftly; his father had taught him to always be alert in alien environments. Besides, the cold ensured that he did, all training aside.

Another pang of sadness and regret washed through him. Poking his head hesitantly out of the flap into the bitingly cold air, he glanced around towards the centre of the camp. No one had yet stirred, despite the sun just beginning to peak through the hills to the east. Somewhat surprised and rather disappointed by the lack of professionalism present in the merchant caravan, the young man resolved to begin nurturing the fires in preparation for breakfast. He started off into the surrounding woods in search of dry wood with which he could feed the fires. The frost-encrusted leaves shimmered before him in the early morning sun like diamonds scattered about the forest floor, before his boots found them and trampled them, crunching satisfactorily. A twig snapped underfoot, causing one of the sparrows he had heard earlier to flap away, pumping its tail up and down in its rush to escape from the unidentified intruder. As it escaped the treeline, like a bolt of black lightening, a hawk swooped out of the sky and snatched up the sparrow, carried it away. At this the young man frowned, and continued about his task.

Returning a number of minutes later, he had both of his arms full of twigs and branches dry enough to burn. The camp had started to come alive, albeit slowly. Merchants and mercenaries stood, stretched, shook the tiredness from their muscles, and seemed to gravitate towards the fire that was beginning to build up at the focal point of the encampment which the youth attended. Men looked and smiled gratefully at him when they came to warm themselves by the blaze, rubbing their hands together and donning great, thick tunics and coats to ward away the cold.

The minutes seemed to pass by as swiftly as an arrow from a bow; they shot past, and the young man simply watched as the conglomerate of men readied themselves for the day ahead. According to conversations he overheard, they would make it to Ravenstern by nightfall – in enough time to get a bed in a tavern, with a fire and warm food to boot.

With this thought in mind, the young man found many of the mercenaries and traders much more amicable that day. Despite the fact that they now had the most dangerous part of their journey ahead of them, the caravan remained upbeat as they rolled up tents and filled saddle bags. Seeing them do this reminded the youth that he still had to return his tent to the caravan master, and thank him personally for it. After rolling up the hide walls and fitting them into the bag – with some difficulty – he tied off the top and attempted to lift the bag. It scarcely budged. He hauled at it again, this time using his legs as leverage; to no avail.

Wondering how on earth the two men from the night before had managed to carry the thing by themselves at the same time as wondering just how he was going to return his night's shelter to its owner, he resolved to set about locating some muscle to help him move the bagged tent. On his way towards the centre of the camp, he saw the two men that had helped him the previous night walking the opposite way to him, towards the outskirts of the camp. He caught the smaller man's eye and waved, then started towards them. At a word from the man with the linen scarf, they both turned and made their way to him as well. Before he could say a word, the man with the strange dark skin spoke up.

"We've been sent to help you out with the tent. Your friend told us that you might require assistance." His voice was low and gravelly; more what he would have expected from the hulking man at his side, rather than this small, quick character with his restless eyes.

He didn't understand what the man meant – which friend was he talking about? While he hadn't been there long enough to make enemies, surely he hadn't spent enough time in this outlandish country to make friends either? The youth decided that it would be best to accept their help, and then ask questions later.

They made it to his small camp site and the three of them lifted the tent bag with relatively little difficulty – in fact, the other men seemed to lift the pack effortlessly while the young man struggled to take his share of the weight.

As the three men marched back towards the centre of the camp, the youngest of them felt it was an appropriate time to ask: "Who was the friend that sent you?"

The men exchanged slightly surprised looks. The smaller man said, "The merchant who leads the caravan – his daughter told us that the two of you were familiar with one another. Is this not true?"

Slowly realising what had happened, the youth covered his true bewilderment with false haughtiness. "Ah, yes, the master of the caravan… He, ah, knew my father; I have met him a number of times before."

The smaller man's brow crinkled momentarily before he shrugged and continued his march. The large man remained silent and expressionless, and was therefore hard to read. Despite this, the young man felt that he had successfully convinced them, and began to mull over why the daughter had shown such kindness to him – no less than a foreigner, and a total stranger to boot. Of course, there was a chance that the daughter had indeed been acting on her father's orders, and his own father's influence had spread beyond his kingdom. He would have to wait and see.


The tower of Ravenstern's fortress stuck out above the town's high stone walls. Hard-eyed rangers patrolled the battlements, and Kierguard manned the single gate on the town's west side, silvered helmets glinting in the sunlight. Some were carrying long swords strapped to their waists, while others held rounded, one-handed axes. All held shields emblazoned with twisting, entwined dragons, usually only seen in the possession of the kingdom's highlander units (according to one of the mercenaries).

The young man sat atop his horse despite his tiredness and admired the craftsmanship that had clearly gone into the construction of the Kierguard's equipment as the caravan stopped at the gate. The helmets were perfectly curved, the plate armour they wore was minutely detailed and the blades they bore were sharp and deadly. The soldiers themselves were no less serious; their demeanour gave the impression that crossing them would be a very unwise thing to do. One guard caught him staring and returned his gaze with cold, calculating eyes. The young man looked away, embarrassed and slightly intimidated, and saw that he had fallen behind the rest of the caravan in his reverie. Spurring the old horse along, he cantered towards the open gate as the last of the carts passed through. Just before he reached the wall, a militiaman stepped into his path with his spear at the ready.

"State your business in Ravenstern," the man said.

"I am a guard for that caravan just ahead-" the youth began, raising his arm to gesture, before the militiaman tilted his spear in his direction. His arm fell back to his side.

"I've heard every excuse in the land. That wasn't even a good one. Now, produce some papers or be on your way." The man's expression told the youth just how serious the guard was, and he started to get somewhat desperate.

"I tell you, I was travelling with this caravan as hired protection! You must let me through – I'll never find them if they reach the market district without me!" Despite his apparent indignation, the young man was beginning to realise the futility of his attempts. If he didn't get into the city, he would be left in the cold with no money and no shelter. The militiaman looked on unsympathetically, awaiting a response. The youth stammered, unable to think of a way to persuade the unrelenting guard to allow him through.

Suddenly, the slight figure of the caravan master's daughter appeared, brandishing a sheet with a wax seal stamped on the base, next to a large signature.

"This man is in the hire of my father. My father is in possession of a royal charter for trade, issued by the king himself. I suggest that you allow this man through the gate, that you may avoid any unpleasantness that should arise from your failure to comply."

The young man simply sat in his saddle and gawped, an action mimicked by the guard for a number of seconds before he shook himself and stood aside, back straight, eyes ahead. "Welcome to Ravenstern, sir!"

Tipping his head slightly, the youth almost trotted away before realising that the gentlemanly thing to do in such a situation would be to offer his hand to the young lady. Doing so, he helped her up onto the back of the saddle and continued into the town. The girl gave him directions as he went, guiding him to her father's residence. Still slightly in awe of her bravery and eloquence under such pressure, he said nothing throughout the ride, merely nodding to acknowledge her instructions.

As the young man reined his horse in outside a large, sturdy house of dark granite near the centre of town, he thanked the young woman, and realised that he still hadn't asked her name. Helping her down from the ancient horse, he said as much, and she smiled shyly, avoiding his gaze.

"My name is Felicity Venton. My father, George Venton, is the Guild master of the city – he is constantly travelling, or doing business with lords of the kingdom. It is from him that I learnt the skill of persuasion; it is invaluable, considering my place in society." She paused and smiled again, realising that she had said too much. She began to feel embarrassed. "So, now you know mine, may I ask your name?"

The young man grinned at her forward nature. Felicity got straight to the point, an attribute he felt many now lacked. "My name is Arthur Barclay. I shall be staying in the tavern in town, so if your father should wish to deliver my payment he can ask for me there." At this, he bowed briefly and hopped back up on his horse. Felicity stepped towards the door of her house before turning back.

"If you ever find yourself in Ravenstern, be sure to visit – I should like to see you again!"

Arthur nodded. "I shall do that. Until next time," he said, and spurred his horse back through the winding streets. Upon reaching the tavern, he paid for a room himself and a stable for his horse, and collapsed thankfully into his bed. Not only had he been travelling all day, he had not slept in a bed for almost a month and had still scarcely taken in his remarkable luck throughout the day. The combination of all these things led him to a deep and peaceful sleep, free of the nightmares that had haunted him the days and weeks following his father's death. It was a dreamless, fretless sleep, a respite from an unforgiving world – a world which had taken all but his life, a life which he now would strive to rebuild.