The Elder Lands

The Wildermen are coming.

It was as the farmers prepared to harvest their crops that word came to their estate. A rider had cut the distance between Lord Arden’s castle and their fief to deliver a message. Rangers had spotted numerous raiding parties crawling north through the forest. The messenger hadn’t lingered after that, cutting east to deliver similar messages to the other knights.

A flood of movement broke over the estate. The messenger had arrived while they broke their fast. His father had allowed the man to interrupt them instead of making him wait, considering the circumstances. That had been a stroke of good luck, since everyone was there instead of scattered and attending to their duties.

Lucan’s father and Thomas were the first to jump off their seats at the news. Sir Golan barked a command, and all the men-at-arms dropped the food back into their plates and were on their feet. Thomas yelled something, and the sole servant in the keep darted out of their modest feast hall and disappeared into the depths of the hallway. Lucan’s feet took on a life of their own and raised him off his seat to stand alongside everyone else. He had slept late the previous night, and his mind hadn’t fully awakened yet.

Still, he was taken by the tide of movement around him, eventually finding himself in the armory, donning his armor with his father and the men. He was given a hand every now and then by one of the men-at-arms, but his mind was elsewhere even as he roused himself.

They had been this close to the harvest. And he had been waiting in anticipation for when it would happen, and for what would happen after it, so much that for a brief time, the threat of the Wildermen had slipped his mind. And that threat had decided to rear its head as soon as he’d forgotten it.

The salt had been stockpiled, meager in amount but enough to entice the merchants for another visit; the pan would still produce salt for most of the autumn, after all. Their dubious silversmith had begun his work on the raw metal delivered from the mine in the past month, and he had produced acceptable silverware as promised. The farmers’ harvest would have marked the beginning of Lucan’s own harvest of his hard work, which would have happened when the merchants trickled in.

Now he had to contend with the Wildermen first. Fine. If that was all, then he would go and fight them. Though he’d never killed a man before. Though he’d never fought a man to the death before.

“It’s insidious,” his father said as Cordell tightened the straps of his armor for him. He was addressing no one in particular, but Lucan noted that Thomas had just entered when his father spoke. “The time they’ve chosen. Lord Arden vacates the villages closest to the border when he suspects raids are coming.”

Thomas nodded. “No doubt he was forced to let them return for the harvest now. Some of the farmers may even resist attempts to move them away now. It’s a tight time between now and the grain harvest. No one wants to turn that tightness into a noose around their necks.”

Sir Golan’s sharpened eyes and set jaw posed his dire agreement. “Indeed. Let us hope we can stop the Wildermen in their tracks. We will have to meet them far out.”

Lucan grimaced. The border lords often relied on dependable methods to handle the raids. Mostly, they established their defenses at depth, abandoning what they called the ‘borderlands’ and vacating their residents. The lords’ soldiers would then man easily defensible positions and watch the movements of the raiders from high ground, often meeting them on prepared fields that provided an edge to the defenders. Such were places that the Wildermen wouldn’t be able to avoid if they wanted to delve deeper into the Kingdom’s territory.

With the farmers and their families still in the borderlands, however, the defenders would have to range farther than they were used to and meet the Wildermen before they could wreak havoc on the peasants.

“The horses are ready,” Thomas said.

“Horses?” Ryder piped up as he helped Clifton with his armor. “I thought horses were to be kept as far away from Wildermen as one can get them.”

Lucan remembered that they had three new men-at-arms who’d never seen a Wilderman, not that he had seen one himself. But at least he wasn’t the only one with taut nerves and an ignorance of what was to come. Ryder was right, though his anxiety was clouding his mind to the answer to his question. Indeed, riding against the Wildermen was a death sentence. Their shamans were masters of the wild, their magic wielding unsettling power over every aspect of it, including animals. If one chose to ride while facing the Wildermen, at best they wouldn’t be able to rein in their steed; and at worst, their steed would turn on them.

Instead of answering him, Sir Golan glanced at Lucan, handing him the privilege of enlightening the man-at-arms to his stupidity.

“We’ll ride to Lord Arden’s castle, then we will continue on foot,” Lucan said, throwing a meaningful look of his own Ryder’s way. He even noticed Clifton giving his fellow man-at-arms the side-eye.

Ryder looked sheepish for a moment, hemming and hawing then burying his head in his work.

They were ready in short order, all strapped in their armor and carrying their arms. They marched out of the keep and down to the bailey, mounting their horses there, where Thomas saw them off at the gate.

Sir Golan led the party, his weathered plate armor gleaming with the early morning sun. He eased his horse into a trot, then pushed it into a gallop. Lucan raced after him, glancing behind to the sight of five men-at-arms and a plume of dust rising after them.

They soon passed by the lake, where a few workers oversaw the extraction of salt. The ones that weren’t down at the pans gaped at them as their horses ate up the ground, passing them by.

After leaving the lake far behind, they came upon the rolling hills of House Arden. They spread out in front of them like humps of countless sleeping giants, lit by the rising sun from one side and shaded from the other.

It remained an intimidating sight to look at until they plunged into it, following a path that meandered between the hills. His father slowed them down to a reasonable trot until they finally moved past the twisting paths.

The plains now opened up in front of them, but they weren’t the first thing to catch their eyes. At the foot of the hilly area they’d just passed stood the vineyards of House Arden’s infamous wine. Vines of grapes were planted in orderly lines, stretching out over the land and surrounding buildings that looked small in comparison.

Lucan’s attention was attracted to the path ahead of them again as his father pushed his horse into a gallop once more. They cut through the plains like an arrow through smoke, following a well-trodden path. The ground rose ahead of them in a gentle slope, blocking their sight of the horizon. But eventually, their heated gallop took them to its zenith, and they caught sight of The Needles. The highest towers in the Kingdom rose to pierce the sky like needles grown from the earth. They were precariously thin, so much so that one could imagine a mild storm tipping them over. These towers rose from within a modest castle of gray stone to watch over the surrounding hills and plains. Built centuries ago, they still stood strong to this day, a testament to imperial mastery. On a clearer day, one might have been able to see them from the hills they’d just passed.

They rode hard towards the castle, soon sighting its gate which was facing their direction. Already, there were dozens of armed men standing around the gate, only one of them mounted on a bulldrake, no doubt Lord Arden.

As they drew close, they were hailed by the lord. He turned his mount towards them and raised a hand towards Lucan’s father. The latter bowed on his horse and Lucan followed his example.

“Golan.” The lord’s voice was soft, due to age instead of nature. Lord Arden was a man more fit for a sickbed than battle. Wispy hair that could scarcely be called a beard circled his lips, and a visorless helm covered his balding head. His face was creased and spotted, and his eyes were such thin slits that one could hardly see their whites. “Just on the thread. We were about to move out. Those animals could break the treeline any moment now.”

“I’m glad I arrived on time,” Sir Golan said. “The others should follow shortly.”

“We can’t wait for them,” the lord said. “They will be guided to their positions when they arrive. Now we must hasten to ours.”

Lucan looked at the lord dubiously as his father nodded his acceptance. The ancient man was visibly striving to bear the weight of his plate armor and stay on his horse. Although his back was straight and it was subtle enough that one couldn’t tell from a distance, Lucan had no doubt that everyone around him knew that the lord would sooner fall off his steed than swing a sword. He was likely on it to avoid showing weakness on foot.

Lucan panned his eyes over the crowd of soldiers surrounding them. He spotted two knights in plate that would compare well to his father’s. They were standing closest to their lord. Two dozen men-at-arms stood behind them in the colors of House Arden, blue with a gray tower piercing a cloud. On the edges of their number stood men-at-arms from the knights that neighbored House Arden, including three of his father’s. Only one of Sir Emerson Ryder’s men-at-arms was present. He would be allowed to bring the least men, since his territory bordered the Shattered Kingdom and would need guarding.

As his eyes searched for anyone else, he spotted someone coming out of the castle’s open gate. It was a boy, no older than eleven, riding out carefully. Lucan could smell the timidness coming off him as the boy urged his steed forward. The men opened a path for him to reach his grandfather, for Lucan had no doubts that this boy was Lord Arden’s only grandson and heir.

The lord noticed his grandson and turned his steed around. “Where have you been, Ren? You’re late. Come here!”

After the boy rode up beside his grandfather, Lucan could only hear the severe whispers of the old lord as he castigated his grandchild. After he was finished, the lord turned to one of his knights and gestured towards Lucan’s father with his head. “Hand him one.”

The knight stepped up to them and exchanged a nod with his father. “Golan.”

“Sarin.”

The knight then handed his father a small pouch that was only marked by a purple streak sewn into it. “You know how to use this.”

Sir Golan nodded and accepted the pouch.

“Time to head out,” Lord Arden yelled, as much as he could yell. “Golan, hand your steeds to the stableboys. Sarin will tell you where you’re needed.”

“Aye, my lord,” Lucan’s father said.