As the Crow Flies [Nathan]

[Emery]

A Margrave falls, a new one rises to power. Questions are raised concerning the legitimacy of the granted position. Ties are strained, alliances broken, new ones forged. The earls sit untouched and safe on their thrones as their soldiers die. It is a timeless game that comes to a head every number of years; a rhythm of death and power seemingly impossible to break from. The fields of the North are sodden with the blood of her countrymen but there is a reprieve; the grand battles between the Margrave’s forces and those of his dissenter’s have fallen to small skirmishes across the countryside. The Margrave has claimed victory and in a show of his ability, he has ordered the immediate surrender and fealty of the remaining men of the rebellion.

Posters in every town read:
Those that persist in their defiance are enemies of the North. They shall find no quarter and no assistance among the common folk – and should a citizen offer a dissenter help, they will inherit the title of traitor.

The executioner’s axe breaks through the necks of supposed traitors two, three times a week. Bodies of women, men, and children alike swing heavy from the gallows. The prisons are full. Paranoia runs venomous, turning neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother. The North is hurting, sickly, and limping, and it is only a matter of time before the wolves begin to gather at the Eastern border. But the Margrave’s eye is turned inward; he wishes to secure his absolute power.

Groups of men –soldiers from families loyal to the Margrave—make their rounds, quelling what pockets of resistance they find with the steel of their blades. Entire villages have been razed; families wiped out on nothing more than a rumor. The earls fight to prove their loyalty, their ability, to win the Margrave’s favor, but it is their men that carry out their will. Hatred and spite run deep; where once the sight of a knight might inspire respect or a sense of protection, fear is all the Northerner’s now understand.

The last of the leaves fall from the trees as Autumn stretches into Winter. The atmosphere is bleak. It will not be a good season.

Metal grinds and clanks, and the sound of horses have the people of Arlenstead rushing the children into their homes. From the horses, a few men carry banners—a heraldic black crow against a canvas of dark red. It is the banner of the Redway family, lead by the earl Redway, loyalist to the crown and therefore, the Margrave. At the head of the small group of soldiers is Emery Redway, supposed adopted child of the family. His resemblance to the earl has long facilitated rumors regarding his status as the lord’s illegitimate son. When there are tasks to be seen to far from home, Emery is the first one called upon. It is to keep him away, out of sight and out of mind. He knows this, most others know this – but none are brave or stupid enough to speak of it.

At the noble’s side is a grizzled man with a scarred face and graying straw-blonde hair. His expression is set to a scowl; he bears the pelt of large wolf over his shoulders. He is neither soldier or knight. He holds no title but is well-known for his fierce loyalty to the earl and his family. It is a loyalty that has seen him personally lead questionable attacks on villages and settlements. There are rumors regarding his near-manic hatred towards nonhumans. Some suggest he hunts nonhumans down for sport. Largely he is thought of nothing more than a mindless dog, slave to his master’s every command.

The presence of Redway and his men does not bode well for Arlenstead. Emery delivers a few short and curt orders. A few of the men disperse. He and the scarred man dismount. They head for a central location – it happens to be the gallows platform. Emery ascends the wooden steps and addresses the gathered crowd. What he delivers does not come as a surprise. The same ultimatum has been heard across the North. A pocket of resistance is rumored to be near – they must be brought to justice for the sake of king and country. There is no heat to Emery’s words, no bloodlust – but there is resolution. The resignation he may or may not harbor is carefully hidden beneath an eloquent and strong delivery.

”… and any man brave enough to hunt the rebels down will be suitably compensated.” Emery’s eyes draw over the crowd. Arlenstead is large enough a village to attract sell-swords and starving adventurers. Sending a few mercenaries to their possible deaths as opposed to his own men is preferable. The last skirmish has seen his group shrink by three heads. ”Rest assured,” Emery starts with a tone that suggests warning, ” My men and myself will not leave until this problem is dealt with.”

A murmur goes through the gathered crowd as Emery makes his way down from the gallows. He throws a look over his shoulder to the scarred man. ”Do a sweep of the village. Make sure there is nothing suspect.” The man nods and they part ways. The soldiers see that their horses are taken to the stables and the Inn sees more traffic than it has in years. The rooms are full and as the day stretches into evening, the ruckus from the tavern floor grows into a din.

Emery sits contemplative at a table with soldiers well into their third or fourth cup of local brew. The men need this rest, this small illusion of peace before they are once again faced with violence. In his heart, he questions. In his heart, he wonders if his Lord Father knows what is best. To question is to defy, and to defy is to be branded a coward and traitor. Still, when he looks to the laughing faces of his men, he wonders.

Tomorrow morning they will make their move. If they are fortunate, their ranks will be bolstered by hired hands. If they are supremely lucky, the rumors will prove false and there will be no fighting to be had.

As of late, however, luck has been sparse.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

War is a lucrative thing.

A battlefield is both a ruin and a blessing. It is, perhaps, a twisted sort of man who can view it as the latter, but that has not stopped the excessive profiteering and cold ruthlessness exhibited by those who do benefit. With villages razed and farmland burning, there is little option for those men left behind but to take up sword and kill for their lord and for his coin – and be cut down in waves, in droves, in numbers so vast they grow meaningless. Those few that survive, learn. Those that learn grow hard. The coffers of those clever enough – or simply lucky enough – to turn tragedy to advantage grow near to bursting; mercenary groups run rampant, ranging from unruly mobs with few morals to reputable bands of skill and principal.

But in the end they, too, are only men, spilling blood for gold.

And when victory comes and coin grows scarce, the sell-swords grow hungry. Scoundrels and opportunists find the brutalized countryside easy prey; more decent men ally themselves with the triumphant Margrave, eager to keep their skin intact. They are little more than scavengers picking fights over scraps, and for those that view their liberated lifestyle as a source of freedom, as a point of pride, the times grow hard – there is a brewing danger on the air, one that darkens each day a rogue refuses to bend his knee. A lack of open allegiance to the Margrave is nearly tantamount to support of the rebellion, and there is no further room to remain impartial. It is easy to pin a mercenary as a traitor; easier still when one is a paranoid lord looking to curry favor by any means.

Still, there are holdouts, and Arlenstead has been playing host to unwanted guests for long days prior to the arrival of the earl’s bastard. They are rough men, but not an entirely disreputable sort, and though rumor and hearsay paint a mixed picture – a civilized murderer is, after all, still a murderer – the town tolerates their presence. Their money is good and flows freely; they fight no more than other men despite their notoriety. The men themselves claim no titles and make no boasts, though their reputation persists; theirs is a renown that has been won through action, passed along by word of mouth and embellished tall tales. Only half of the gossip is remotely like truth, but rumor travels faster than wildfire. Arlenstead is a sizable center of trade despite its distance from the center of the realm, and though the band of mercenaries calls itself nothing, the commoners whisper of the Red Stag.

Nathaniel Hart thinks it is sensationalist drivel, but infamy can serve as well as a sword on the battlefield, and the sight of his sigil – the connotations it carries – is an inspiring thing. It is only as the rebellion’s skirmishes draw to a slow and bloody end that he grows concerned over the risks in being known – or worse, that his enemies presume to know him. The men are proud of their fame, their success, but he worries that pride will be the end of them – and as whispers of armored men on horseback fly through the town, his thoughts are dark. He is familiar enough with Redway’s banner, with his mission, and intelligent enough to understand the implication there.

He has played both sides of this endless conflict, but there is little tangible evidence to tie him to any one faction – loyalist or otherwise. Whispers and rumors both lie and contradict, and that is almost more dangerous than the truth; it is with this in mind that Nathan departs from the gathered crowd and summons his followers. A show of support in trying times, even if it’s an allegiance bought, is a small price to pay for keeping their heads off the block. The North is drying up and growing perilous, and though Nathan has lived comfortably off the fat and the spoils of conflict, it may yet be time to head for fresher pastures. They will pursue this final option.

It is with only two men that he pauses outside the tavern come evening. Upon each of their chests is pinned a stag’s head fashioned from a scrap of red cloth, their only subtle sign of affiliation; it would be a crude and mocking herald if not for the weight behind it. Nathan himself wears no such symbol, no revealing insignia; indeed, he would be rather unremarkable were it not for the individuals at his sides and the experienced edge to his otherwise casual stance. His clothing is plain – supple and worn leather – save for the cut of crimson cloth at his throat, tucked beneath his high collar. His harbored misgivings do not show; the man makes for Redway’s table, and it is only once he has been allowed a seat that those with him disperse.

Despite – or perhaps because of – the nature of his profession, he would prefer to stay soundly uninvolved in politics. His luck never seems to allow it.

”What does your lord pay,” he begins mildly, drawing out his words as he settles across from the man. ”—to convince a man to die for him.” Where Hart and his band may be interested, their faux loyalty is not a thing easily given – least of all when it may leave him irrevocably tied. He hopes it will not come to that; he hopes this Emery Redway will not disappoint. Nathan tilts his head slightly, regarding the occupants of the tavern with a distracted eye. ”They took rooms from my men to house your soldiers,” he explains slowly, ”so I presume your coin is good.” His gaze flickers back, curious, and the ghost of a smile haunts his lips. For his position, Nathan is well spoken and arguably handsome; there is little that speaks of common blood about those bold blue eyes and refined features. Some forgotten bastard, no doubt, raised well on gold meant to keep his mother silent and afforded something of an education – but he has carved his own path.

A woman deposits a mug before him, and Nathan regards it musingly before taking a slow sip. ”Tell me about the rebels.” It is conversational, and not at all commanding, though perhaps lacking the respect one should afford the son of an earl.

Nathaniel Hart may be an exception to the stereotype of the treacherous sell-sword, but a certain independent streak comes with the territory.

[Emery]

The man with the white-blonde hair slips a token from his pocket and holds it within two fingers. It is frosted silver in color, an inch in diameter, and small enough to be clasped firmly within a man’s palm. Emery Redway regards the ornate lilies etched into the medallion’s surface with a weighty countenance. There is something close to longing carried in the lines of his face but it reads too unsure. Weariness attributed to a long stint traveling through the cold of Autumn could easily be at blame for his dour expression. He eyes one of his men and makes to speak, to proclaim the unlucky soldier responsible for his companion’s actions for the night, but he is stopped short of excusing himself.

A man flanked by a number of others approaches and it is enough of a gesture to render the table quiet. Redway’s men drop their mugs to the table and fasten the look of wary hounds onto the other group. Constant battle and little rest has seen the most chivalrous of soldier rendered into a nervous animal. Tension grows palpable in the silence as Emery takes his time to tuck the medallion safely away and to lock gazes with their black-haired leader. A glance to the subtle proclamation of allegiance pinned to the men’s chests has Emery extending a hand of welcome, indicating the seat opposite of him. The moment the man accepts the offer, Redway’s men return to their conversation.

”Thirty sovereigns a head,” Emery delivers easily with a tone that suggests he understands the miserly nature of his offered sum. He makes it a point to meet the stag’s eyes when he adds, ”One-hundred sovereigns for their leader.” A man rarely wins the loyalty of others through charm alone. Someone with the ability to command respect – and to command his men—would prove to be an asset. ”But I suspect you will try and sweeten the deal.” It as much an open acceptance to haggling as it is a warning. Emery may have the reputation of being the most fair and kind among his brothers, but he has little patience for the word games of rogues.

The crow supplies the bar wench a nod of acknowledgement but politely refuses when she offers to deliver him food and drink. He neither has the appetite or the freedom to indulge. The months have seen his men grow despondent, disorderly, and even reckless – issues further compounded when they have mead warming their bellies. Emery cannot deny them as the chance to bury themselves in vice so seldom presents itself. ”The rebels are dissenters and traitors to the North.” The toneless way in which he speaks renders Emery’s personal feelings towards the situation impossible to decipher. ”The last of Harold, Earl of Greyshire’s, supporters are reportedly haunting the woods East of here.” The elaboration carries on in the same matter-of-fact approach.

A weight in his pocket grows heavier. It is nothing more than a trick of the mind. ”They are to be flushed out, offered terms of surrender, and when they refuse—“ because they will refuse, his eyes say, ”—they are to be put down.” Justice, in the black and white terms orchestrated by the Margrave’s own hand. ”Surely you wish to bring yourself and your men honor by assisting us in the good King’s name.” The worth of honor has depreciated but there is gold to be had. Emery briefly wonders if the hart deals exclusively in tangible currency.

Deliberating the details to their engagement is cut short when the door to the inn swings open and jars loudly against the wall. The man with the scarred face strides inside with his hand firmly around a wilting figure’s shoulder. Emery and his men are on their feet in an instant and the scarred man gives an ugly scowl before pushing the supposed captive forward. He stumbles to his knees and looks up at the gathered men with terrified eyes. His mouth flounders, he searches for words but cannot find them. Emery looks to the man with the graying blond hair, expectant. Storm-grey eyes move from Redway to the man kneeling on the wooden floor. His rumbling words are a rasp of sand and gravel when he says, ”Tell him what you told me.” There is disdain in the hound’s voice as he turns away and rounds his way towards the back wall.

Moments pass before the haggard young man finds his voice. ”I---I just. I’m tired of being on the run. I’m tired of being hungry. I just want to see my family again.” His face drops and he seems to deflate, as if the weight of all the kingdoms is placed squarely on his shoulders. ”I know where Harold’s men are. I can – I can take you there.” A surge of energy hits him and he locks gazes with Emery. When the man next speaks, it is with near-hysterics. ”I can take you – if you promise me amnesty.” The wild look of a cornered hare glints in the dark of his irises.

Emery at once finds the defector sickening and pitiful. It is a disgusting breech of loyalty and the desperate bid of a young boy that has no business playing soldier. ”I give you my word,” he says around a swallow, ”That you will not meet the same fate as Harold’s men.” This appears to calm the man and he sighs, and says nothing more. Emery turns his head. ”Reid, see to it that our…guest has suitable lodgings for the night.” As Reid leads the defector away, there is a shake to young man’s shoulders that rings disturbingly of restrained sobbing.

”It could be a trap,” a soldier offers.

”It could be.” Emery agrees. He turns to regard Hart with a stern look. ”Fifty sovereigns a head. One-hundred for their leader.”

[♥ Nathan ♥]

There is a subtle twitch that crosses the side of the dark-haired man’s face, a telling curl to his lip that is gone in an instant – that is erased entirely by the time he meets Redway’s eyes. The paltry offer is nearly insulting. Nathan’s word and his men do not often come either easily or cheaply – he is well known for a reason, and reliability in a mercenary is a rare and expensive trait – but here he must put his own pride to the test. Redway seems to know and expect as much; Nathan allows him to continue with a roll of his shoulder and a wave of his hand, keeping silent. Bickering over an all but done deal can come when the details are known and the threat is assessed – an agreement will be struck, that much is obvious. Each man needs the other more than they are like to admit.

The blond drones on and Nathan cannot entirely mask his disinterest. Either the lordling has done this so many times it has become rote, or he simply has no further information. He suspects it is, in all likelihood, a combination of both – but names and titles and vague concepts of justice have no bearing on his decision. Hart’s obligation is solely towards his men, to keeping them fed and housed and living when not risking themselves on the battlefield, and it is to this end that he bargains. There is a subtle shifting, a fluttering of tense fingers, as he considers the proposal, the particulars; Nathan sighs heavily, and once more takes to watching Redway’s gathered and drunken compatriots.

”No,” he replies tersely and at last; his eyes drop to the dark liquid in his mug. ”You may keep your honor.” Dangerous words in his present company, but Nathan understands the assumptions often made of him. His profession paints a certain image and that stereotype is not entirely inaccurate; the man’s personal feelings regarding the Margrave’s edict – regarding the amount of so-called glory found in paid slaughter for some far-off King – have no place here. He has never lost sleep over the things he has done for a slip of coin, and he certainly will not start now.

Every man has his price – and Hart cannot feed his followers on honor.

”But you may have my word,” he continues, drawing his eyes back upwards. His promises are good; Nathan does not take contracts lightly, and he does not break them. This resolute implication behind their agreement is reflected in a hard and assessing stare. ”—for fifty sovereigns a head—“

An interruption, a commotion – and though Nathan’s hand slides instinctively towards his hip, where no weapon is to be found, he does not rise with the assembled soldiers. Instead the rogue captain takes to watching the pathetic exchange from his seat, fingers tapping uneasily on the side of his mug. It is a rare display of the uncertainty that sits coiled within his chest, a heavy thing that is amplified by the young turncoat’s words – by what they reveal without saying. It is a caution that he is not alone in feeling, and Nate rises as the talk turns to plans of action. He sniffs; mulls the best course over in his head in a drawn out moment. It is not the reward he should receive – not in the least for walking headlong into a trap – but it will do.

”Sixty and one-hundred, and you have us until you have your rebels. Through ambush and otherwise.” He holds his hand out, steady, for Emery to shake; he can feel the gathered eyes upon them, the men who see him only as a means to save them from their eventual fates. ”Nathaniel Hart,” he offers. ”But Hart will do.” When the deal is done he will suggest another round of mead to seal the contract – and presumably denied, instead nurses the remainder of his drink in the company of Emery’s men, sharing false laughter and suspicious glances until his mug runs dry and the evening calls.

To their credit, his band does not balk at the paltry arrangement he has managed for them; and in a display of restraint outstripping that of Redway’s soldiers, their last evening is not spent wallowing in drink. Only Nathan seeks out the comfort of a whore’s bed to ease his lurking misgivings.

He finds no solace there.

Dawn breaks upon Arlenstead, and Nathaniel Hart is awake, sleepless. As the town begins to stir so too do his men – they prepare, they outfit themselves, and they make for their prearranged meeting with the crow and his forces as a unified front. Despite their reputation they hardly seem unique – they are certainly not equipped from the wealth of armories and the steady support of an Earl’s gold – but they are the bodies Emery requested, and Nathan knows each man as a house of skill and (varying) sense. He can feel them as comfortable, worn presences against his back as his little black gelding leads them to the town’s center – and he wonders, not for the first time, if he is doing right by them.

Responsibility, as it does too frequently as of late, weighs heavily upon him. Nathan feels a brief pang of longing for the early days of easy laughter and youthful, brazen confidence. It is a feeling he would give nearly anything to recapture – that these men were his, and together they belonged to no one. That together the world was theirs.

For now, and for the duration of their contract, they belong to Redway. Together they have the promise of coin and a hope to live to see it, though he can all but smell their eagerness on the air. Nathan’s eyes fall upon Emery as he pulls to a halt, and his gaze flickers between the blond and his stalwart, grizzled guardian. ”Where is the boy?” He figures he shouldn’t be so concerned over the traitor’s fate – should at least not voice it so openly – but wisdom does not stall his question. Emery Redway is known for something resembling compassion, but Nathan knows first-hand the lies that hide in rumor. The man could enact justice with as firm a hand as his father – as the Margrave himself expects – and Hart only hopes it is otherwise.

He nudges his horse close, boldly allows himself to believe that he belongs at the head of the column, and a small and smirking mouse-haired man rides at his side as the group makes to depart. The rest of his company finds their own way; they mix and mingle with the ease of men used to brief and situation-born friendships. Nathan turns his head to assess Redway with a glance, voice lowered now that the distance between them is closed. ”I’ll lead my men where you ask, so long as it’s not suicide.” A narrow-eyed stare falls upon the crow’s scarred warden once more. ”And if you’ll have it, I can offer advice. For you to take or leave.” A delicate proposal – one that Nathan finds is too often turned down. ”What is your current plan?”

It is a deciding moment – the captain despises nothing more than a lordling who arrogantly chooses to deny him information and so curtail his role. He will go where directed and he will not hesitate, but there is more value in his men than assuming they are simply a sword to be pointed and a tool to be used.