Brodulf Horsemaster
Brodulf Horsemaster
by: Lemming - 12/06/2005
The King's son led his column of men ahead through the winding vale on a path that would bring them north through the foothills and into the plains. The clomping hoofs of the horses, steadfastly bearing their heavily armored soldiers forward after riding all morning and much of the afternoon, made a great deal of noise even on the soft ground. Though the mountains were far behind, the way ahead was hilly and not easily found. It was for that very reason that this route had been chosen by the Marshalls at their meeting two days before - such an approach would do much to mask the lines of troops that made their advance.
These knights, this company of young men, rode to do something that had not been done for all the long years of their King's reign, and his father before him. They rode to make war on the High Men of the north, who at last sought again to bring the Horsemasters of the Knechtsmark under heel. Thus, though some soldiers were seasoned by years of hard labour if nothing else, it was for the most part a fresh and untested army that answered the summons of the King to battle. The company that the heir to the Knechtsmark found himself leading were the best armed and of the highest honour in all the army, and would invariably lead the charge when the forces were all assembled. The prince was not young, and not easily shaken, but even he allowed himself some private apprehension to the battle that awaited them, still some distance ahead.
Whistle. Snap. Something had happened. He turned his head to the left to see a man in his column clatter to the ground, a long arrow protruding from his back, just below and to the left of his neck. A horn, the voices of five hundred men crying in unison, and the High Men were upon them. Archers lined the hill crest, the setting sun on their backs, while infantry hurled pilums as they charged down the slope. The King's son wheeled his horse and drew his sword, bellowing his challenge as his two hundred some men did the same. They managed to form a sturdy line, the horsemen of the Mark, but deprived of the momentum of the charge that defines mounted warfare, they were indeed outmatched.
Wading forward on horseback into the first line of the attackers, felling any who came in distance of his long blade, and narrowly avoiding a longbowman's arrow that screamed over his shoulder, the Prince of the Mark was determined to make the best of this encounter by standing firm and dying with honour. Nearly thirty of his men had been taken in the first few moments of the ambush, and the rest, still reeling from the shock of an attack that had come too early, were not equalling their opponents in casualties inflicted. What's more, the Prince realized grimly, with his men so occupied with the lines of infantry that were now looping around their flanks, he had nothing to send against the archers on the hill who were now freely and carefully taking aim on the beleagured knights in the valley. But another cry was being raised. From the northwest, cresting a rolling foothill, another company of horsemen approached with armour that glowered in the yellow sunlight. Leading them was a young knight on a great warhorse who wore no helmet to cover his head. He drew his sword and turned his head to his fellows, and his long brown hair shook as he urged his horse into a gallop. At his cry they lowered their lances and answered with their own voices, and he brought his eyes forward again. They swept through the lines of High Men, decimating the archers on the hill and hitting the infantry hard in the flank. Soon in the chaos that followed, the ambushers were routed, but having no place to flee most instead chose to throw down their weapons and beg the mercy of the Horsemasters of the Knechtsmark. "Rise, Brodulf Horsemaster, and share words with me," said the King of the Mark. Immediately he regreted the command when the young knight rose. Even with the King sitting on his high throne in the audience chamber, on a dais two steps above the floor, the knight was tall enough to look the king in the eye. The aging monarch, however, was not the sort of man to be irritated by such things. Rather, he was amused - having watched Brodulf grow up in this very same court, at first a page boy, then a squire, then finally the strapping knight standing before him, he should have known better. He stroked his white beard in a display of regal thoughtfulness. "The Mark owes a debt of gratitude to you for your service on the field of battle," the King offered. Brodulf bowed low, graceful and courtly for one so great in size. He spoke humbly when he rose again: "I served with the duty of any knight, and am glad to have brought my lord King honour." Nodding at this, the King spoke again. "We speak of much more than duty and honour, young Brodulf. I have accounts from several important men from my son's company of that day. The Baron of Lowfold," he added with a hint of a grin playing on his face, "swears that they would have all perished if it was not for the giant who singlehandedly killed half of five hundred High Men." The knight grinned back openly. "The reports are greatly exaggerated, my liege. My own company must recieve the credit for a well executed attack. It is a shame that I won't be returning to lead them again in the field," He said this with genuine regret in his voice and expression. His company had been made up of raw knights, like himself. Placed under Brodulf's command upon his arrival at the outbreak of this war with the High Men, back from the errantry that had taken him to lands far from his home, many of them had not known what to make of their new captain. He had quickly earned their respect with decisive action and glory on the field of battle, however. Flatteringly, some of his company had even gone so far as to pledge to follow him on his upcoming journey, to remain under his command and partake in whatever battles awaited him there. The journey was not news to the King. He nodded once more, and when he spoke again, his words were soft. "I know the reason for your parting, and I know that neither land, nor title, nor wealth or command will sway you from your path. Go, then," he breathed, a sigh that made him seem finally as old as the years that had marked him, "with the blessing of Knechtsmark, to whatever fate you choose." Brodulf spun on his heel then, and walked out of the Great Hall and into the courtyard. His fate he had chosen already. Back on the ship, bound to Masthead, and back to the Land of the Unicorn he would go. There his lady Annmarie awaited him, and if she would not consent to marry him, he would spend his life beside her as her servant instead.
