Rindyar Castle
All in their glory, the Saderans stood atop the castle, unfurling their banners over the walls.
With no hope of another relief force, the defenders surrendered the castle without a fight.
Many had left the castle in joy, relieved of not having to endure another day of disease, fighting, and death. But knights and sworn guards who stayed behind with their lord were stubborn and refused to answer to their captors, even if their king had suffered a defeat. But with no chance of escape, they could only live in chains for now.
Rafard knelt before Formal and his crowd of officers. His most loyal Swadian knights behind him had their hands bind and helmets removed.
"Congrats, the day is yours." The Swadian Lord stated who looked as tired as every man, knight, and guard who was captured.
The Saderan lord sat courteously, a translator at his side, "He congratulates you and says that the day is yours." The translator recited.
"The day is not mine." Formal said, "It is the emperor's."
The translator relayed his words to the Swadian lord, to which Rafard could only mutter in question, "Emperor?".
The title was an ancient word. No one had ever lay claim to that word in years. It is true that kings in the past claimed they were the true descendants of the Calradian Emperors and that they would lead their nation to a prosperous empire in the future like Calradios. But that was the past, the future was still full of shock and woeful mystery.
"We… We ask only that our women and children be freed. Nothing more." Rafard said quietly.
When his words were relayed once again, Formal nodded in respect. A righteous noble. A rare one at that, "Hmph, well I see no reason to deny your request. We will oversee their evacuation. But the rest will be prisoners under the Saderan Empire as of this moment."
Rafard spoke to the lord in his foreign language again, which were the final demands.
"He says that he is accorded to the privilege of ransom and that he is the son of Count Delinard, Lord of Suno. It is a custom he suggests you use wholeheartedly."
"Oh, yes." Molt nodded after the translator was finished, "You will be accommodated to a tent and a bed to rest on until a ransom is discussed."
Rafard had bowed his head, relieved, "…Heavens forgive me."
In great honesty, he wasn't asking for forgiveness because of his imprisonment to the invaders. He understood that Swadia wasn't going to last any longer. He was asking for forgiveness for questioning his faith in the nation. The forest bandits that terrorized the countryside was already a hassle for the army, and with it almost annihilated, he wouldn't be surprised if the outlaws were able to fortify themselves in a stone castle and form their own horde.
And his king, oh how Rafard wished he could turn back time. Back to when Harlaus was in his prime, leading a thousand Swadian knights into battles and being paraded in the streets after a flawless victory against nordic hordes. The king sure wasn't on his deathbed yet, and was hardly sick, but his aging was already affecting him and his war-like talents.
With a flick of a wrist, Formal's men took Rafard and his guards back to the prison carts forcefully.
As Rafard and his men were tugged back to the prison carts, he saw a messenger run to the crowd of officers and kneel in front of Molt who looked more or less exasperated now.
"What is it?" He said.
"My lord, Herm has reported that the Khergit hordes are in retreat. But they've allied themselves with the nation in the far east."
"The far east? More nations?"
"They call themselves the Sarranids. We've already caught several of their envoys trying to get the word across."
"What word exactly?" Formal asked firmly.
"To unite the surrounding kingdoms."
Ambean River
Crouched over the gravel, King Ragnar calmly skinned a fish's scales off.
Him and his band of huscarls ferried to the other side of the nordic river of Ambean, away from Sargoth after a hardy feast. It was his favorite spot, where the realms of the Nords and Swadians bordered each other. A bold move as he'd just march home from a war with the crimson lions a year ago. But here he was, reeling in fish with the Swadians just behind his back.
So enamored with his catch, he had failed to notice Jarl Aeric walking up to his side.
"Ragnar."
The Nordic King hummed, "Hmm?"
"An emissary from Swadia arrived, they bring a message from that king, Harlaus."
"What could that Swadian want from me now?"
The Jarl handed him a rolled up piece of parchment, an official seal from the king himself.
He looked at Aeric's item before stabbing the knife into the board. He took it and unfurled the scroll. The king's eyes scanned from the left and to the right, which only made him snicker.
"An alliance?"
"There's been talks of a standing army attacking their villages. Matching banners and armor, tight formations, cavalry, and even giants. 50,000 legionaries. I don't think Harlaus would be stupid enough to send a message that absurd, and so urgently no?"
"This is… intriguing."
"They tried a counter attack but failed at Amere. They've retreated back to Dhirim."
He looked back at the letter before abruptly furling it back, "It matters not to us." Ragnar stood, "We serve the people Aeric, our people. Nords don't accept alliances by a simple piece of paper. If the enemy decides to invade our fiefs, we block the mountain passes, gather more warriors from Jumne and defend our home at all costs. Tell them I decline the offer, no use in allies if their army is already decimated."
Aeric bowed, "Aye, I will send my men to give them your word."
"Nonsense," Ragnar tossed his last dead catch into a bucket, "We're done here anyways, pack every thing up."
By his order, the guards and servants fastened their king's fishing gear, while he and Jarl Aeric high-stepped their way through the dark water and into the swaying boat.
The blue bannered sail towered over them, a black painted bird in the middle. The longboat they ferried over the river was rich, and built by a skilled wood-worker Ragnar personally knew, all the way from the wintering lands of Jumne, or nordland the others would call it.
Decorated bows and arrows were packed in the haul for hunting, with throwing axes for a small competition. The wooden oars lied in the water, small vines of silver stitched into each paddle which anointed its rich status.
Blood dripped from a blade like morning dew. These people were different than the ones that lived in the plains. They were ragged, tall, with well-groomed beards on every man that could hold an axe and shield.
The horse buckled under the Saderan cavalrymen, hooves grinding at the soil as they targeted the party.
Ragnar tossed his bag up and into the boat, climbing in before a shiny glint of metal caught his eye. He looked again, watching another spark of steel shimmer in the treeline.
He raised a hand, silencing his guards and servants movement in an instant.
"What is it?" Aeric whispered, unbuckling a hatchet from his belt.
A horse then burst from the dark forest and into the gravel, kicking away pebbles, rocks, and dirt with its powerful hooves. A dozen more followed, the riders shouting as they flashed their swords at them.
The servant farthest from the boat was trampled by the hooves of heavy horses, guardsmen too late to get into the longboat were struck in the back by the horsemen.
"Ambush!" Ragnar bellowed.
Aeric's voice cracked, waving at the others, "Get to the boat! Quickly!"
Ragnar leapt into the longboat, snatching a few arrows and a bow. There was no time to don on his helmet or his mail shirt, he'd have to fight in fish tainted clothes.
"Archers in the front!" He commanded, nocking an arrow.
His servants and guards took frantically armed themselves. Axes, hammers, and short spears pulled from the boat while his bowmen bunched up at the front, drawing their bows.
"Release!" He yelled.
Arrows were shot from the boat. Two riders were feathered, tumbling off their horse. One of the horses shrieked after an arrow struck its chest, Ragnar personally shot the rider at the front, striking him between the nose and eyes.
Aeric heaved the heavy wooden oar with his arms and clutched it to his chest. He grunted and smacked a passing rider, flinging him off his saddle.
Ragnar roared and jumped over the sides, tackling a rider off his saddle. His burly hands and knees held down the horseman under the water until the bubbles of his breath died.
Another huscarl had wrapped his elbow around a rider's neck, pulling out an axe out and caving his head in.
Seeing the rest of the riders falling one by one, the last two retreated in fear, their horses splashing through the water as jounced their way back to the treeline.
Ragnar knocked one of the retreating riders off before he could escape, chasing after the last one.
He readied his axe, palm skipping to the end of the shaft. Aiming straight at the center of the enemy's back, he flung the axe with a deft swing of his arm.
It whirled in the air before hacking into the rider's back. The horse ran for a time, the dead rider bouncing on its back until it stopped.
"Who are they? Raiders?" A Huscarl grunted.
"They're not Swadians that's for sure!" Another one called out.
Jarl Aeric looked around. The dead men that surrounded him were strange. Their armor was new, with fine dark steel. A red cape was buckled onto their backs, though it was a shade of red that the Swadians did not prefer. It was fine silk. It could even be used as a blanket.
Their helmets did not match the Great Helms Swadian knights would don on while charging on horses also, nor did their armor spark any familiarity with the red tabards the men-at-arms wore.
He looked to his king, wondering if even he had an answer to this debacle.
Ragnar's cold blue eyes steered to the wounded horsemen he knocked off and began walking towards him. Water sloshed under his heavy steps as his Guards held up the last rider by his hair, a sharp sword edging at his neck.
Aeric spoke hoarsely, "Who are you!? Answer swiftly or your blood stains his sword."
Though, his attempt to intimidate the survivor was naught as the rider only spat at them with vile hostility. His words were enough to make even the hardest of the Huscarl guards look in perplexed shock. But his foreign language did not stop the Huscarl from pushing the edges of his sword closer to his throat for his hateful words.
"What is this bastard saying?" Ragnar spat.
"I've never heard those words in my entire life." Aeric proclaimed.
"It matters not!" Ragnar grunted, "Whoever these men are, there will be more. Let us go!"
"What do we do with him?"
"Take him too, torture the damn bacraut if you have to." Ragnar stepped onto the longship and held onto the stempost, looking over the rest of his war party, "We sail back to Sargoth! For more warriors!"
Somewhere near Sumbuja…
Even though snowfall had yet to begin, the massive line of Saderan legionaries had already felt the brunt of the Vaegir cold biting at their skin. Each legionary found themselves breathing into their knuckles to keep their fingers from going numb.
But marching in deep snow with chilling temperatures did not stop them being fresh and undaunted troops. They took the first town they saw without any resistance. It didn't even look like there were any guards stationed there. Only a few homeless beggars and house pets.
Perhaps this was their way of a surrender? Mudra himself thought. He'd be glad if it were.
His orders were to capture the rivers in the north to stop any armies from ferrying themselves to locations they had yet to learn. Sir Mudra, appointed by Prince Zorzal, led a force of eighteen thousand legionaries, accompanied with archers and light cavalry. A small conroi of heavy knights rode close to him only.
He himself was garbed in a fur cape, keeping him warm while the infantry he was leading were left in the cold. His legate and other horsemen rode up to him, bearing news of their scouting report.
"We've had a skirmish with the enemy." He breathed, "We're close but… they've encamped themselves near the rivers as well. We estimate their numbers to be near the thousands though."
"Heh, So?" Mudra snickered, "Then these measly barbarians will have to handle the force of three legions. We beat them once, let us defeat them again in the snow! Forward!"
"We should lay camp first Mudra. The men are cold and tired-"
"The villagers have already told us about their numbers." He smirked. It was time that he would get the glory and steal Formal's easy victory. A battle in the snow? What a story to tell.
"Eight thousand weak snowmen aren't enough to keep three whole legions busy. A battle should keep them warm enough. Forward!"
Officers shouted to pick up the pace, horses were whipped and the legions chanted in unison. Three singing legions marched forward into the cold, into unknown territory.
Wow, I am terribly sorry for the long wait and the short chapter. I was seriously burnt out after school and writing the second chapter. But hey it was worth it because it got me straight A's anyways.
But overtime I've also been doing some deep thinking and I honestly think I should rewrite this story. Hell, the first chapter was written in two days and I don't think it explained things well. I still have yet to establish the main character also. But that's up to you guys really, do you want to continue from here? Or do you think a rewrite is a good way to smooth things out?