"So Vi is your name, eh?" Lady Herald Gwynaoir hummed, "An Eslient no less."
"Yes, madame knight," Vi replied, "I am Vi Eslient, son of the damned Dei Eslient, and—"
"Look, scoundrel." Vi winced at the word. He wondered why they would continue calling him that even though they now know of his situation. "No need to call me 'madame'. I'm no dame. Also, I am not a Knight, I am a Herald of the Knights. And yes, you have repeated your hate for your father quite a few times now."
"And finally," Sir Knight Gansson began, "Because we're giving you lodging, you ought to give us something in return." Thoughts of downing Eslientia raged through every knight's mind. This could be the moment Nigons have been waiting for!
"I can work menial task—"
"Damnit, again," Gwynaoir complained, "Shut up with your denseness! I wouldn't be surprised if several ladies left you because of your cluelessness. What we are talking about here is fighting Magon. Can you do it?"
"W-what? What?! No, what?!"
"Can. You. Fight. Magon. Need me to baby feed you?"
"Sire Eslient," the squire boy politely started, "All of us here are Nigon. The only Magon we're associated with is the farmer girl, yet her family is Nigon. You know of the struggles of the Nigon race... and what we ask is: will you help us defeat the Magon hierarchy?"
"Lots of words for a boy that barely speaks," Gansson muttered, "But the boy is right. You might be the key we, the Rutsk bandits, and all other Nigon have been waiting for. Aelveil as well, considering the status of our Count, having a Nigon child and all."
"No," Vi answered, "This is blasphemy. Utter foolishness! Who could defeat an entire fucking race?! With countless armies, too!"
"Magon could, sire," the squire suggested.
"What?"
"Magon defeated the largest army of all: the Freir army. They now continue to fight the larger-than-theirs, albeit spread-out, army of the Mrvde. They constantly put down Nigon revolts, to the point that we no longer wish to fight. But with our combined efforts, we could topple the wavering government here in Eslientia, where the most supreme military leader himself resides. Your father's death would mean the life of all Nigon."
"Damn, kid," Gansson commented, "You really open up to nobility, eh? But not some humble knights?"
"My apologies, sire. I knew this man for a long time. He's like an uncle to me, sire."
"I see. Now, Eslient, what is your final answer to our proposition?"
Silence. I need time to think, Vi thought, Surely these people are insane? Who would challenge a right to rule that has lasted since this land was full of barbaric tribes? A rule that has amassed an army that marches across countries with ease, destroying kingdoms and lineages with ease? Not to mention the hatred the Magon have amassed in their youth, effectively causing all Scentral-raised Magon to hate their humble counterpart. Really, are these knights insane? This damn band of knights.
"This damn band of knights," Vi thought aloud.
"Not one band, sire," the young boy corrected, misunderstanding the statement as a question, "But an army of bandits, knights, soldiers, and peasants. All against a few hundred Magon in the city. The peasants in a few villages have agreed to send every able-bodied man in revolt, and the Rutsk Fort bandits are readied for any hour of battle, while agents have already sowed dissent amongst the guards of the city. Not to mention the half of the entire Aelveil army. Sire, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. And we need you."
"But... I—" He paused, unsure of himself. "I'm no hero. What do you expect of me?"
"To kill Dei Eslient, sire. That is all we expect. You know him. You know his servants, his manor and palace grounds, his guards' patrols. You should know how to kill him."
"More big words for such a young boy, eh?" Gansson jested, receiving blank looks around the room, "Fine, I'll be quiet..."
"Look, knights, herald, and squire," Vi explained, "I have been planning Dei's death for years, yet to no avail. I remember the servants, yes, and I remember Dei, yes, but that does not mean I know how to kill him. And the layout is an old memory to me as well, thus I cannot be a good judge for navigation."
"Then find out it all, sire," the squire deadpanned, "Find out how to kill him. We will give you a few days. Revolt is coming."
"W-... fine. Very well, young squire. You alone seem to have convinced me. I will work with your band of barking dogs, but I expect this to be a worthwhile event. I'm not spending any more days in prison lest I wish the death of me."
"Very good, sire. You have made a choice to change time forever."
"Jolly good, damn show!" Gansson bellowed, clapping like a mad dog. Soon, all of the Barking Knights were clapping.
"Let's ready some drink, eh?" Gwynaoir yelled.
"AYE!" several knights agreed.
Drinks were served and laughs were heard. Yet, would it be so easy for the lowly to defeat the wretches on the throne? Could mere peasants, bandits, and soldiers defeat the greatest military strategist the known world has seen?
Nay time for that query. Horses' hooves were heard over the sounds of the Barking Lodge, silencing even the loudest of the knights.
"What is that?" Herald Gwynaoir asked the thin air.
"Nay, it can't be..." Gansson gasped, looking out the window behind a fur curtain-flap, "Eslientum guards! Let us meet them, and should we, fight them!"
"AYE!" the knights barked again.
Every man grabbed his gear. Vi was given a woodsman's axe for defense, while most knights donned in bronze or copper armor over chainmail of the other material. The Herald, Gwynaoir, donned herself in a copper chainmail under her rare steel armor, gifted to her by her father as the only heir to her long lineage, while holding her favorite spear along with her heavy, copper-frosted steel heater shield. Every knight had a suitable weapon, and most carried metal or wooden shields. The squire held a short estoc and a small wooden heater shield, wearing hard, boiled leather armor atop copper chainmail and his garments.
As the band of warriors marched out the doors, they all anticipated the worse. Outside, with Vi waiting nervously in the Lodge, they met the small patrol party of horsemen. Each one had a spear, sword, and kite shield. The commander had an obvious tail atop his copper-embroidered iron helm. The fancy leather and woolen outfits, along with the copper embroidery, suggested they were Magon. Nigon guards wore appropriate armor, not clothing.
The commander's horse stepped up front, allowing the man to begin his decree.
"Barking Knights of Aelviel County," he commanded, "We of the Eslientia County have long allowed your lodging here, and I pray that it has been peaceful!"
"Aye, it has been," Gwynaoir barked, "'Til you came and showed your ugly snouts."
"My, my, so we have a madame commander?" The patrolmen chuckled with no regard to safety.
"I hate being called madame. Something I might kill a man for."
"Is that so? Well, Knights of Aelveil, we have had a recent escape from the prison of Eslientum. A man who might refuse his true name to you, and may have dirtied his true hair color. A very, very dangerous man, who might not even spare such a madame as thee yourself."
"And you speak like I don't know a damn thing about Vi Eslient, son of Dei Eslient, Nigon by blood yet noble by right, mother deceased, abandoned by his father, a refugee in all respects. I know of this man, you damn cowards. I'll fight for him as I'd fight for the gods. So less lollygagging! Let's fight already!"
Anger rushed on the enemy sergeant's face. "If you wish to die, we'll give it to you with delight! Men! Charge, and spare no one!" The edge of dusk made its face, and both sides' men screamed warcries as they charged each other. The distance between them was quickly shortened.
Her spear straight, Lady Herald Sergeant Gwynaoir of the Barking Knights of Aelveil charged directly towards the enemy's sergeant. Jumping at the last second, her spear plunged into the covered neck of the horse. Colored illumination caught her eyes as the enemy shot spells in her comrades' directions. Dashing backward, she brought her shield in front of her, just in time as she was pushed back by the force of an attack spell. Balancing herself again, she lunged for a second attack.
The Magon was stumbling to his feet, his horse bleeding on the ground. Taking advantage of his distracted phase, the Lady Herald swung her shield across the man's chest, knocking him onto his back again. Twirling to block a barrage of spells, she retreated to her comrades' side of the battle. She cursed under her breath and readied for another attack.
Gwynaoir rushed to her left to accurately stab the leg of an enemy horse, causing it to fall helplessly to the ground. The squire boy came near and stabbed the enemy in the chest, the cloth failing to stop anything sharp. Turning towards the enemy sergeant again, the Herald charged yet again. She sidestepped to avoid a spell directed towards her, using her momentum to jump onto the sergeant, who was distracted by the incoming blows of one of the Knights.
On the ground, spear tossed away by the crash and yet her shield still in hand, Gwynaoir violently growled at the sergeant. She took firm hold of her shield, raising it high. She aimed for the neck and brought the heavy shield down, its pointed bottom gashing the sergeant's scalp. She cursed her inaccuracy and tried again by aiming for the man's chest. She plunged the shield in the cheap leather armor and twisted the shield with all her might. Blood spurted across her platemail and above her head. She kept bringing down the shield with immense force until the gurgle of death was all the man could scream. Crazily bloodied, the body was left by the herald for her to continue in the battle.
The squire was barely phased during the entire battle thus far. He had seen it all before, his teaching of the Royal Freir Swordman's Art by his father found as a valuable asset, making him a surprisingly sturdy warrior. Wearing rather light armor, the boy dashed across the scene, parrying swings from swords and thrusts from spears and shots of spells. He stabbed with all his might into the enemy, refusing to see humans in their faces, replacing the visage with monsters. He stabbed the horses, seeing only tools for the enemy to use. Now was not the time to feel sentimental; now was the time to feel rage. He took his hatred of the Magon, his hatred that his friends, young like him, could not make it out of the forest. Hi hatred that his father was taken to prison and tortured to death. His hatred that he could not live a simple life, but yet a life of constant endeavor. He translated his hatred into pure force to kill the enemy.
And before the Knights, the Herald, or even the squire knew it, the enemy was dead. Blood was on their armor, across the road, and all over the rest of the scene. The Barking Knights were victorious.
"Fuck!" a knight moaned, "My fuckin' leg is hurting like complete shit!"
"Alright, man," Gansson yelled, "We get it! Many of us have wounds, yet I think we'll live to see another day! Who here is severely injured?" A small raise of hands determined only a few were wounded terribly. "And who has scratches?" The hands raised were all. The consequences were forthright. "Then let's take the wounded to the Lodge and tend to our wounds!"
"Aye, Gansson," Gwynaoir shouted, "Whoever can run, let's take the wounded to the Lodge. The rest unoccupied should go immediately to the Lodge! Aye, Knights of the Barking Lodge?"
"AYE!" they howled.
Every man made his way to the Lodge ever so slowly. They would all live to fight another day, yet now it was known that they hold an incredibly valuable prize. So how would the Knights of the Barking Lodge tell their story in the end? Would the Nigon populace find resolve at the end of that story? The final question, it is: what story will be told by the end of this new war?
ns 15.158.61.18da2
