The Elder Lands

Lucan waited behind his father who stood in one of two rows of nobles forming a path for the prince’s expected passage. From here, Lucan could see the column of armed men snaking over the hills, deluding those who witnessed them into thinking that they were endless. One might even find the sight more intimidating than seeing them in formation. Thousands upon thousands of men marching in a narrow column could extend farther than one could see, particularly because of all the dust riled up by their passage.

Naturally, the prince rode at the head of this endless column. Gleaming armor out of bedtime stories covered him from head to toe, its golden sheen prominent under the retiring sun. That must be the goldsteel armor the princess had told him about. The king had had it made for his chosen heir. If memory didn’t betray him, Lucan believed the king had already had a set of goldsteel armor, passed down from his predecessors. The only reason he could’ve had this one made was that Prince Dane’s build was too different from his. All the literature agreed that goldsteel couldn’t be reworked. It was what it was made to be, no more and no less. Or perhaps he was wrong, and the king intended to pass on his armor to his eldest son even though he wouldn’t be passing the throne on to him.

The prince and his retinue broke off from the marching column and headed for the waiting peers of the realm. He stopped at the head of the path formed by the noblemen and dismounted, his guards following him. The lords and knights bowed, the former with a slight lowering of their shoulders and the latter with proper bows at the waist.

“Rise,” Prince Dane’s even voice rang over their heads. “Thank you, lords.” He marched down the path between the vassals as they rose. Lucan saw two of the Royal Guard in bronze flanking him as he passed.

At the end of the long path of noblemen lay a pavilion tent set up for their marshal. The prince soon disappeared into it and nobles began following him in, each in turn. Those of higher standing were to see the prince first, of course. While all lords were nominally equal, Lord Serys had the highest status south of Arpague, and so he was invited inside first. Duke Elmere and his host had been collected by the prince on his way here. Lucan had seen Arpague’s colors among the marching troops, that and many others.

As they stood in waiting, Lucan’s boredom got the best of him and he found his mind wandering. He whispered to his father. “How many Skill slots do you reckon the prince has, Father?”

Surprisingly, his father responded. “Aside from the royal family, few are likely to know that. But regardless, he must have had quite a ritual.”

“Like mine?” Lucan asked, his eyes tracking the endless snake of troops as they poured into the encampment, expanding it at the northern edge.

His father let out a faint huff. “Only with the best ritualists in Eldham instead.”

A thought occurred to Lucan then. His father had four slots, which were considered a lot, even for a noble, but he’d never heard of his ritual. “Father, have you had a ritual?”

The knight glanced back at him with some exasperation then answered, “No.”

Lucan cocked his head, knowing well that his father could discern his movements from the corner of his eye. “Why not? Grandfather wasn’t a poor man.”

For a moment, Lucan witnessed something rarer than Labyrinth Breaks, his father flustered. After a quick glance at him, the knight looked ahead and said, “Not the time, Lucan.”

Lucan tilted his head further, looking askance at his father who ignored him. Well, that certainly wouldn’t be the end of that.

Their wait continued. And it was only as the sun began to set that they were let into the prince’s tent. Many knights whom his father was senior to had been let inside before them, which was its own message–and quite foretelling.

Their turn soon came and one of the guards outside the tent called for Sir Golan Zesh to enter. The knight complied and Lucan followed his father into the pavilion. Knights of the Royal Guard lined the walls of the tent, doing their utmost to appear as though they were part of the fabric, even as they kept hawkish eyes fixed on their visitors. The prince was seated on several cushions stacked on top of each other, and a low table was placed in front of him. He’d taken off his armor and was wearing a gold-embroidered set of clothes that would have been fit for a palace assembly. His short, caramel hair was swept to one side which made him an even sight not lacking in regality. The prince gave them a stately smile and gestured at the two seats across from him. Two single cushions.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Lucan and his father gave him quick bows before taking their seats. With his higher seating, the prince loomed over them. “We meet again.”

“It’s our pleasure, Your Highness,” Sir Golan said.

“I must wonder if it is,” the prince said, glancing between them.

Lucan met the prince’s gaze and felt it assessing him with swift efficiency. The royal was neither smiling nor frowning now, and while he affected a relaxed posture, Lucan could see that his sharp jaw was set.

For a moment, his father seemed to be at a loss for words but he quickly recovered. “We are here to fulfill our duties to the realm. There’s nothing to ponder, Your Highness.”

His father’s strong words took Lucan aback but he wasn’t the only one affected by them.

Prince Dane raised his chin to hide a surprised face. “Well, no one would question the candor of Sir Golan Zesh on the field. But one should indeed wonder if such candor is better kept away from halls of marble and gold.”

Father nodded. “Then we are in agreement, Your Highness. For I have ascertained that I have no love for politicking.”

The prince didn’t look truly convinced, but he went on, “I suppose that is for the best. Now onto other matters. I have procured equipment for those not possessed of enough means to bring their own. Some light armors and such. The quartermaster ought to apprise you of the particulars. The troops will still be unified in command, but I’ve judged that this matter is better administered by their lieges to prevent any theft of royal resources.”

“Of course,” Sir Golan said.

Lucan nodded along. It was clever. Among other methods, it wasn’t unlikely for some of the men to wear a pretense of extreme poverty to receive goods they didn’t deserve, and ascertaining that none could return to the quartermaster more than once to receive more than their due was necessary. Almost every member of their levied troops came with some form or another of armor. It wasn’t difficult to fashion some padding in any household that wasn’t starving. But that didn’t mean that it would be proper armor. Some of the levies did come with proper gambesons or leather sets of armor bought for them by well-off families, but many others came in tattered padding sewn together by desperately hasty wives or mothers.

The prince’s gift was thoughtful if not unheard of. Many men would benefit from better armor. And perhaps it would be needed more than one would think. Lucan’s father had promised him prolonged attrition and harassment by the Wildermen tribes in the south, as was the norm whenever a northern king had attempted a campaign through their territories. Thankfully, word was that the prince had no intention of invasion or subjugation, but rather he was only interested in restoring the flow of the Walis by way of a swift victory.

They left their marshal’s tent with many questions on their minds. Lucan hadn’t expected a welcoming veneer from the royal and the uncertainties they left with were of no surprise to him, not that they would leave him or his father untroubled. Campaigns were the worst place for debts to be settled. Hopefully, the prince was wise enough to know that sabotaging them while they were in his service would only breed distrust and contempt for him among his vassals.

They returned to their camp, where their men-at-arms were waiting. His father called for Lee to follow him into his tent, no doubt to charge him with the matter of equipment; while Lucan called for the two who appeared to have found good prospects for him.

Heath and Clifton both spoke at the same time as they met him.

“I’ve found–”

“There’s an old–”

They glanced at each other then at him. Lucan sighed and said, “Who came back first?”

“I did,” Heath said.

Lucan gestured for him to speak.

“An old friend of mine happens to be among the levy from the north,” the blonde man-at-arms said. “He comes from my home village, Ayza.”

“And he has some skill?” Lucan asked.

Heath gave him an apologetic smile. “Not much of it, unfortunately. But when it comes to trust, I can ascertain his honesty with my life. I know him very well. He doesn’t lack for courage, and he’s never broken faith with those who trust him. This campaign ought to shore him up where he’s most lacking…if he’s blooded in combat.”

“I can’t dispute the importance of trust, but we’ll have to wait and see if his composure weathers the heat of war,” Lucan said, wondering how his own composure would weather it. He turned to Clifton next.

“I have come across a newly minted band of mercenaries, six men,” Clifton said before raising a hand to forestall any concerns. “They’re yet untainted by the nature of their profession. And they have enough capability between them to show promise.”

Lucan nodded, though the thought of trusting mercenaries was already tainted in his mind. “Very well. Both are worthy prospects for the time being. But the sun is already setting. I will see them on the morrow.” He glanced at his other men-at-arms, hoping that there were more to come.