interested parties began to file out of the throne room, Soth breathed a sigh of relief. His role as Knightlund’s chief justice was done for yet another week and the next dreaded Palast morning court was a blessed seven full days away.
Soth had thought he would have enjoyed some of the more mundane aspects of ruling Knightlund, but just two short months after his wedding and ascension to the Order of the Rose, he had come to realize that that simply was not the case. He yearned to draw his sword in battle, to feel its honed edge cutting into the flesh and cracking the bones of his enemies. It was what he had been trainedto do. But, here he was a Knight of Solamnia, a Knight of the Rose, performing the duties of a common clerk.
For a brief moment he admired his father’s ability to oversee Knightlund so capably, and so happily, for so many years.
He rose from his throne, wondering what unremarkable task would require his attention that afternoon when suddenly—
“Milord, milord!” The voice was that of the squire stationed as a lookout on the top level of the keep.
Soth remained standing, waiting almost impatiently for the squire to appear. At last he ran into the room, out of breath and obviously excited.
“A rider,” he said, taking a breath. “A lone rider approaches from the south, at full gallop.”
Soth felt the hair on his arms bristle with anticipation. Clearly the rider was on a mission of great urgency.
“Is he flying any colors?”
“Red.”
“Prepare to lower the bridge!” he bellowed, his words echoing throughout the keep. Soth followed the squire out of the room and made his way outside, where the rider was bringing his horse to a stop in the center of the entrance area just inside the keep’s gatehouse. A small crowd of knights, squires and others had gathered about, all curious to learn what was afoot. The rider had entered slowly, his horse appearing to be on the brink of exhaustion. Even now that his ride had come to an end, the rider seemed no better off and looked rather ragged and sore after what was obviously a long, hard ride. He was helped from his mount slowly, his movements suggesting each movement of his arms or legs was painful to make.
When he finally had both feet on the ground, footmen took hold of his shoulders and helped him over to where Lord Soth waited.
After letting himself down onto one knee, the rider looked up at the lord of the keep and grimaced to fight offa fresh stab of pain. “Ogres,” he managed to say, still slightly out of breath.
Soth stepped closer to the rider, noticing for the first time that there were bruises on one side of his face and down along his neck to the shoulder, wounds likely made by an ogre’s vine bola or cluster ball. “Where?”
The rider had managed to catch some of his breath and was now composed enough to manage something resembling coherent speech. “I’ve come from the village of Halton. The ogres have moved north upon us from Throtyl, commandeering our stores and laying siege to the village. Several villagers have been killed, some others have been wounded. I only managed to get away by acting as if my wounds were fatal, then stealing a horse at nightfall.”
Soth nodded. Halton was a small but vital agricultural center south of Dargaard Keep on the western foot of the Dargaard Mountains. It served as the initial trade center for much of the annual fall harvests in the region and was often called “Harvest Home” by people all across the plains and throughout southern Solamnia.
Throtyl, on the other hand, was a pocket of lawlessness in the southern tip of the Dargaard Mountains. It was situated in a small forest which opened upon a broad marshy plain called Throt. To the east of the plain lay a passageway through the Dargaard Mountains called the Throtyl Gap. The gap was a place infested with marauding bands of outlaws, barbarians and ogres who made their living smuggling goods through the gap, charging heavy tolls
Soth had thought he would have enjoyed some of the more mundane aspects of ruling Knightlund, but just two short months after his wedding and ascension to the Order of the Rose, he had come to realize that that simply was not the case. He yearned to draw his sword in battle, to feel its honed edge cutting into the flesh and cracking the bones of his enemies. It was what he had been trainedto do. But, here he was a Knight of Solamnia, a Knight of the Rose, performing the duties of a common clerk.
For a brief moment he admired his father’s ability to oversee Knightlund so capably, and so happily, for so many years.
He rose from his throne, wondering what unremarkable task would require his attention that afternoon when suddenly—
“Milord, milord!” The voice was that of the squire stationed as a lookout on the top level of the keep.
Soth remained standing, waiting almost impatiently for the squire to appear. At last he ran into the room, out of breath and obviously excited.
“A rider,” he said, taking a breath. “A lone rider approaches from the south, at full gallop.”
Soth felt the hair on his arms bristle with anticipation. Clearly the rider was on a mission of great urgency.
“Is he flying any colors?”
“Red.”
“Prepare to lower the bridge!” he bellowed, his words echoing throughout the keep. Soth followed the squire out of the room and made his way outside, where the rider was bringing his horse to a stop in the center of the entrance area just inside the keep’s gatehouse. A small crowd of knights, squires and others had gathered about, all curious to learn what was afoot. The rider had entered slowly, his horse appearing to be on the brink of exhaustion. Even now that his ride had come to an end, the rider seemed no better off and looked rather ragged and sore after what was obviously a long, hard ride. He was helped from his mount slowly, his movements suggesting each movement of his arms or legs was painful to make.
When he finally had both feet on the ground, footmen took hold of his shoulders and helped him over to where Lord Soth waited.
After letting himself down onto one knee, the rider looked up at the lord of the keep and grimaced to fight offa fresh stab of pain. “Ogres,” he managed to say, still slightly out of breath.
Soth stepped closer to the rider, noticing for the first time that there were bruises on one side of his face and down along his neck to the shoulder, wounds likely made by an ogre’s vine bola or cluster ball. “Where?”
The rider had managed to catch some of his breath and was now composed enough to manage something resembling coherent speech. “I’ve come from the village of Halton. The ogres have moved north upon us from Throtyl, commandeering our stores and laying siege to the village. Several villagers have been killed, some others have been wounded. I only managed to get away by acting as if my wounds were fatal, then stealing a horse at nightfall.”
Soth nodded. Halton was a small but vital agricultural center south of Dargaard Keep on the western foot of the Dargaard Mountains. It served as the initial trade center for much of the annual fall harvests in the region and was often called “Harvest Home” by people all across the plains and throughout southern Solamnia.
Throtyl, on the other hand, was a pocket of lawlessness in the southern tip of the Dargaard Mountains. It was situated in a small forest which opened upon a broad marshy plain called Throt. To the east of the plain lay a passageway through the Dargaard Mountains called the Throtyl Gap. The gap was a place infested with marauding bands of outlaws, barbarians and ogres who made their living smuggling goods through the gap, charging heavy tolls
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