The sound of the trumpets ripped through the dawn silence like a bronze blade, cold and merciless. It wasn't the song of a bird or the murmur of the wind, but the call of duty, which, in castles like this, has a habit of arriving long before the light. In the main courtyard, the chaos was a choreography of iron and leather: horses whinnied, scouts tightened straps, and the smell of hay mingled with the pungent aroma of armour oil and the hot breath of men woken in a hurry.
Alistair struggled with his two-handed sword, trying to find an angle at his waist that wouldn't make him trip over his own legs or knock over a comrade. The steel seemed to have doubled in weight overnight.
– By the gods – he grumbled, eyes bloodshot and hair tangled. – I've accepted that death is a likely outcome, but this cruelty is unnecessary. The only thing worse than dying in battle is having to wake up before the sun itself has the decency to do so. If the gods wanted us to fight at this hour, they'd have given men owl's eyes and less of a desire to sleep.
Orlan awaited them by the entrance of the keep. The grey morning light accentuated his sharp features and the paleness of his face. The castellan wasn't wearing the velvet of the previous night; in its place, he wore polished steel armour, devoid of adornments, but fitted to his body with a precision that denoted function over form. There was no gold or crests, only the austere gleam of metal doing its duty.
– Viscount Lorenzo will not be present at the departure – Orlan declared, his voice cutting through the courtyard noise with an icy authority. – Matters of extreme urgency required his presence in the capital, in Aureliana, and he set off under the cover of night.
Alistair leaned towards Roderick, letting out a sigh that reeked of disbelief.
– Of course he did – he murmured, the usual venom dripping from his words. – The Viscount gallops to the capital to discuss the realm's fate and swig Vignetto Vecchio wine from gold chalices, while we, the illustrious wretches, head into the scrub to play soldiers and serve as a snack for the mosquitoes. The hierarchy of this world is truly inspiring.
Orlan, whose ears seemed as sharp as his mind, gave no sign of having heard what Alistair said, and merely made an imperious gesture towards the stables.
– I assume command of this expedition in the name of the Verdegrande – the castellan decreed. – Follow me. A man without a mount is just a walking corpse, and we've many leagues of shadow ahead before we find what we're looking for.
In the stables, the smell of manure and old leather was thick. The animals were restless, sensing the steel and the march to come. Orlan moved among the horses with a mechanical calm, choosing mounts not for beauty, but for the strength of their hocks and the breadth of their chests. However, the remaining mounts were a collection of miseries: pack horses with worn hocks, second-rate nags that had seen too many winters, and beasts of uncertain temperament.
Alistair, after assessing the line of animals with the disdain of one who knows life in the pens, stopped before a grey horse with thin flanks and an expression of boredom so deep it seemed to ignore the very existence of the men around it.
– This one will do – Alistair declared, slapping the animal's neck, although it didn't even deign to blink. – He shall be called 'Sarcasm'. He seems slow to start, uninterested in glory, and, I suspect, has a kick that no one expects but everyone deserves. He is, in short, my reflection on four legs.
As there was no mount small enough for Lucius that wasn't a pack pony, the lad was hoisted onto the rump of Alistair's grey. Lucius clung to the plates of Alistair's leather doublet with the tenacity of a tick, while the mercenary grumbled at the grey sky.
– Marvellous – Alistair hissed, feeling the boy's fingers tightening around his ribs. – Now I'm not just a moving target, I'm a moving target carrying a rucksack with hands and an inexhaustible supply of constant questions. Try not to stifle me, lad; if I die, Sarcasm will probably decide you're next on the list of things to ignore.
The castle's iron portcullis rose with a groan of chains that echoed through the valley, and the expedition set off. At the front, the garrison soldiers in their green overcoats; behind, Roderick's group.
Roderick, mounted on a bay stallion that seemed to share his austerity, pulled up alongside Orlan. The mercenary captain was not a man for flourishes; his curiosity was as direct as a spear thrust.
– Campius – Roderick began, eyes fixed on the road ahead. – It's a field name, a bastard's name, yet you command a Viscount's men and hold his keys. How does a man without a name get so close to nobility without using a dagger?
Orlan didn't move in his saddle. His profile remained as rigid as a silver coin. There was no offence in his tone, only the coldness of a long-accepted truth.
– Blood is blood, captain, whether it's shed on silk sheets or stable straw – Orlan replied, his voice cutting the cold wind. – I am Viscount Lorenzo's son, a son the law denies, but the blood recognises. Though the laws of succession prevent me from inheriting the Verdegrande lands or wearing their crest, my father never allowed my mind or my arm to be left out in the cold. He invested in every master-at-arms I could face and every book I could devour.
The castellan glanced at Roderick with a glint of bitter pride in his eyes.
– Lorenzo Verdegrande gave me everything an heir would have, except the name. In exchange, I gave him the only thing a name cannot buy: a loyalty that knows no bounds. I am the shadow that guards his day, Roderick, and shadows, as you well know, are far harder to kill than lords.
The column left behind the safety of the road, where the sun still touched the gravel, to plunge into the forest's jaws. There, the treetops interlaced like giant fingers, stealing the light and leaving only a trail of persistent damp that seeped into the bones.
The Verdejante garrison, however, marched with the arrogance of steel. The soldiers, young and hot-blooded, beat the hilts of their swords and the butts of their spears against their oak shields, creating a metallic drumming that spooked the birds and challenged the forest's silence. Upon their polished steel breastplates, which shone with a grey lustre in that gloom, they proudly displayed the green overcoats with the silver vine of the Verdegrande.
Alistair watched them from atop his horse, which seemed to share his contempt for others' enthusiasm. He adjusted his reinforced leather doublet, its metal studs looking dull and miserable compared to the soldiers' splendour.
– Look at those peacocks, Lucius – Alistair murmured. – They shine so much the bandits won't even need to light torches to find us in the middle of the scrub. I almost feel naked without all that pomp, but at least my armour doesn't announce my arrival three leagues away.
Lucius, on the rump, craned his neck, his eyes shining with longing as he observed the articulated spaulders and the brandished helms passing before him. He let out a heavy sigh, which seemed to carry all the frustration of a child who grew up too fast in a world that wanted him small.
– I wish I were taller – the lad confessed, his voice faint beneath the noise of the march. – I wish I could wear one of those suits of plate and be someone others see and respect.
Alistair let out a short, dry laugh that echoed among the tree trunks like the snap of a dry branch.
– Don't worry about that, lad – he replied, tugging Sarcasm's reins. – If you were taller, you'd just be a bigger target for an archer with poor aim. As it stands, you're the perfect size for arrows to fly over your head without seeing you. It's a tactical advantage many lords would give half their lands for when the steel starts flying. You should thank Solarius every day for keeping you like that, so close to the ground. It's much harder to kill what you can barely bloody see.