The Broken Heart of Arelium by Alex ROBINS

Author:Alex ROBINS [ROBINS, Alex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bradypus Publishing
Published: 2021-03-15T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The Girl at the Country Fair

“I cannot overstate the importance of leadership. A proficient leader must learn to apply a philosophy of balance to all aspects of his command. For every disciplinary action, there must be an act of mercy. For every word spoken in anger, another spoken in praise. And if he is the last to arrive on the field of battle, it is paramount that he be the last to leave.”

Zygos, Seventh of the Twelve, 19 AT

*

“No, no you idiots! By the Pit, have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?” shouted Reed as the makeshift spearwall collapsed in a heap of wooden sticks and bruised conscripts. The sun was peeking shyly over the stone wall of the inner keep, bathing the inner courtyard with dawn’s first light.

Workers had spent the night dismantling the animal pens and outbuildings, relocating the smithy and tannery to abandoned buildings outside the inner wall. The empty space before the keep was now large enough to fit about a hundred men from Reed’s command. Over four times that number waited on the mustering field before the barbican.

“All right, all right, let’s take five minutes. Go get some water or something to eat.” He pulled the morion steel helmet from his head and threw it to the ground. His greying hair was wet and sticky with sweat. He knew the Pit-spawned thing offered good protection against blows to the head and neck, but the weight of it constantly pressed down into his scalp and restricted his movements. I’m an officer now, I can wear what I want, he thought petulantly, silently vowing never to put the headgear on again.

He scratched at his beard idly. The dour servant who had fed and clothed him on his arrival in Arelium has since become some sort of personal assistant, carrying missives to and from the other captains, organising the billeting of the men and the troop rotations. Reed had found out his name was Jeffson. The man continued to treat Reed with the same respectful indifference as when they first met, seemingly unfazed by Reed’s change in rank and status. The only time Reed had seen a crack in the man’s calm facade was shortly after his oath of fealty to the Baron. Jeffson had pressed a wrapped package into Reed’s hands and backed away hurriedly, muttering something about looking the part.

The crinkly paper bundle was hiding Reed’s Old Guard uniform, washed and repaired. The vermilion cloak had been scrubbed clean of blood and dirt; the holes in the leather surcoat sewn up by a precise, dexterous hand. The sun emblazoned on the surcoat’s torso shone like the beacon of hope it had always meant to be. A golden pair of crossed swords had been added to the right sleeve just below the shoulder: the sigil associated with the rank of captain. And best of all, the leather clasp of his cloak had been replaced by the embossed silver wolf’s head of Arelium.

Jeffson had been invaluable, working tirelessly through the night.

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