Osmund shook quietly. He sat in his tent, gently holding onto his knees, awaiting for the order to charge against the Harhold army. He was one of the many men who had been conscripted into Lord Tyrannian’s military as a result of Harhold’s declaration that the Veer would be turned into a penal colony. Even the thought of such a thing terrified him. Osmund was a young, Anglian man of around seventeen years of age. He worked on his father’s wheat farm, and largely kept himself to himself. The only thing Osmund really knew how to wield effectively was a tiller, and that could hardly be used to kill a man. He was sweet on a girl in the village, but that all seemed far away now. Everything now was mud, blood, and sweat. He knew his friends were somewhere in the military as well, but they had been assigned to a different regiment. As he thought of them, he stood and walked out of the tent. His armor was a simple chain-and-plate mesh, with the Tyrannian banner blazoned across the armor; a red and white checked pattern overlaid with a black stallion. Osmund himself was of fair skin and blonde hair, with a dirtied face which sprouted small tufts of hair here and there, the promises of a future beard. At his waist loosely hung an iron longsword with several cinchs in the blade, and tattered leather wrapped around the hilt. As he walked through the tent, he remarked to himself that he could just barely see the Harhold encampments further down the peninsula. He thought it was uncanny that the danger which threatened them was quite literally within view. It obviously contributed to the air of uncertainty and fear in the camp; the usual laughter and bustle of the military camp was entirely gone, with only the croaks of the frogs in the nearby creek and the crickets of the grassy peninsula to produce an unsettling ambience. The men to either side of him were busying themselves with menial tasks; some sharpening their already sharp swords, others shining their spotless boots, and some attempting to write in journals, despite their lacking ability in literacy. Soon, Osmund found himself just outside the command pavilion. He’d never been this far into the camp, especially since he’d only just joined up with it two days before, but now he could make out several figures standing around a table with a crude map atop it. One was of average height, but wore a special armor which marked him as the Tyrannian Palest. His face had effeminate features, but was still undoubtedly a man. He had long, black hair and yellowish brown eyes. His face seemed kind, but innocently unaware as to the horrors of this world. Osmund matched the face to the description he had been given by his father, and he recognized this man as the infamous Enzo Celso, Gallus Tyrannian’s most trusted bodyguard and Palest. Another wore the signature armor of the Tyrannian personal bodyguards. His head was completely hairless; he lacked both beard and hair. His right eye had at some point been gruesomely ripped out of the man’s skull, and a whole slew of scars adorned the wound. He wore no eyepatch, but did not seem particularly cruel. At his hip hung a canteen which had peculiar milk stains around the edges, rather than water. Osmund did not recognize this man. Osmund’s heart leapt into his throat as he saw the last man, coincidentally the tallest. He recognized this one instantly. The man had jet black hair, and a similarly colored sleeveless surcoat. His undershirt was stark white, and he had a magnanimous scarlet cape which stretched all the way down to his ankles. In a single moment, Osmund knew this had to be Gallus Tyrannian, the Lord Protector. Instinctively, Osmund wanted to get closer to the pavilion. He tried to be casual about it, but inevitably ended up just plowing through several men as he stepped closer to the pavilion. As he neared it, he noticed that there was a single crutch laid against one of the supporting posts. He also noticed a deep but quiet voice ringing out above the others. Osmund sat in the grass just outside the pavilion and listened. “... No, I do not think so.” Lord Tyrannian said, his deep voice having mostly recovered from the arrow he had taken to the lung about a week before. “Why not, Gallus?” Enzo Celso asked, “If we fall back to Carroburgen, we’ll have the advantage with the Stanisian walls.” “Because the more space we give Harhold, the more troops he can ferry to the Veer. Once he secures more coastline, he’s free to simply occupy the rest of the Veer. And then, when he has a hundred thousand men sitting outside of Carroburgen proper, he needs only situate his ships to the Western coast and starve us,” Lord Tyrannian answered. Enzo thought for a moment, then spoke again, “So, you think we should go on the offensive? We’re fighting Harhold, Ravenstad, and Delmotte troops. I don’t think we can get that many men. Sounds kind of dumb, if I am honest.” “Sounds like suicide to me,” spoke the one-eyed man. “Everything sounds like suicide to you, Zaheer. I am just saying it is dumb, is all,” Enzo said with a glance and a half-smile. “I think it is our only option,” Lord Tyrannian said, ignoring the quick exchange between Enzo and Zaheer, “And if my supposition is correct, Ravenstad and Delmotte will be pulling their troops from the fight.” “How the fuck do you suppose that?” Zaheer asked vehemently, confusion evident across his face. “I planted the seed of doubt in Ravenstad, and it has evidently spread to Delmotte,” Lord Tyrannian explained, “A few nights ago, in the capital, Delmotte himself professed that he would be removing himself from the conflict. Given his alliance with Ravenstad, it is only natural to assume that Ravenstad would do the same.” Osmund shook his head with a low whistle. The rumors surrounding Lord Tyrannian looked to be true at some level; the way the man thought was almost clairvoyant, but the way he explained made it all look so logical. Lord Tyrannian looked up as Osmund whistled, and Osmund felt his nerves contract as the man’s piercing blue eyes bore deep into his being. The noble seemed to note Osmund’s nervousness, for his next words addressed it. “You do not need to fear reprimand, soldier. This outer pavilion is for open tactical discussion. We have a closed command tent for classified content,” Lord Tyrannian said, “Come forward. What do you think of the campaign?” Osmund was astonished. He’d never expected to be noticed by the Lord Protector, let alone addressed, yet here he was. He stood up and slowly walked toward the pavilion. He nervously felt the hem of his tunic. His throat went dry. “Well, m’lord…” he stuttered, then stopped. He was about to mention his uncertainty about the coming conflict, but he wondered if it was fitting to speak ill of it in front of his liege. “Go on,” Enzo urged. Now all eyes in the pavilion were patiently on Osmund. “Well, m’lord. I’m… uncertain,” he was about to say scared, but that would certainly be unfitting, “My da’ read me the reports on their troop numbers compared to ours. And they’re… It’s Harhold, sir.” “Indeed it is,” Lord Tyrannian responded, “And it was, a year ago. You must vest your trust in me, and I shall not fail you. Not while I can still stand.” At that moment, a deep horn sounded across the peninsula. It was far different from the brass notes of the standard Tyrannian horn. Chills ran down Osmund’s spine. All eyes in the pavilion turned to the East, the direction the sound had come from. “What was that?” Osmund asked. “The Harhold levies are preparing for battle, I think it’ll be in the hour. I don’t know, probably,” Enzo answered. He waved to a nearby herald to sound the Tyrannian horn. The herald nodded, then grabbed the horn hanging at his waist. He did not blow it, however, as a lone scout rapidly approached the pavilion on horseback. He came from the direction of the Harhold encampment. The scout performed the perfunctory Tyrannian salute; a single hand made into a circle and placed adamantly on the chest. Zaheer replicated the salute, then addressed the scout, “What is it?” “Sir,” he said, then turned directly to Lord Tyrannian, bowing before he spoke again, “My lord. The Ravenstad and Delmotte troops have boarded their ships. They’re leaving the Veer.” Enzo sighed, reaching into his surcoat and handing a tenpiece coin to Lord Tyrannian and muttered a statement in one of the Southern tongues to him. Osmund felt his body begin to overflow with adrenaline and another feeling which he hadn’t felt in days. Hope.
