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Mounting Baruch, Godfrey set out from the stables of Fuetoile Keep. No longer did he accompany Sir Fallard or some other lord. Godfrey was by himself now on his father’s business. It was a strange feeling. As Fuetoile Keep grew farther away, he kept looking back, expecting someone, anyone, to come and announce that he would escort Godfrey the rest of the way. With the castle now hidden by the trees, Godfrey came to terms with the fact that no one was coming to hold his hand. He really was being trusted with this great responsibility. Alone.
As darkness fell, Godfrey stopped to rest for the night. It was miserably cold out. However, he did not light a fire, as he was alone and there was no one else to take watch. Even if there were not any orcs around, there were still wargs, brigands, and other foul creatures whose attention Godfrey did not want to attract while he slept. He simply wrapped himself tightly in his cloak, only taking off his spangenhelm. He knew it would be harder to sleep in his armor, but he had to be ready if some sudden danger woke him up.
He tossed fitfully in his sleep, his dreams filled once again with violence, snow, and the maiden with grey eyes and dark brown hair. He could not make much sense of it when he woke up, but he grew so tired as the day wore on that he decided he would risk sleeping without his armor on for the rest of the journey. Even doing so, by the end of a week, Godfrey was stiff and exhausted from traveling so long. Occasionally catching a whiff of his own repugnant body odor, he grew eager for the chance to bathe. He breathed a heavy sigh at the sight of Harv’s palisade, and even Baruch seemed relieved.
The sentries at Harv’s gate did not notice Godfrey’s weathered appearance. They waved down at him from the parapet when they recognized him, and talked excitedly to each other. Wondering if the guards were still in awe of the tale of how Godfrey slew the vampire, he stopped Baruch just at the gate and looked up at the men.
“You should go to the town square, sire,” one of the guards called down. “Bishop Clovis has an announcement that he wants everyone to hear.”
“Right,” Godfrey replied, dismounting from Baruch.
Important men like bishops regularly held councils, recited decrees, or otherwise made use of open communal spaces, but Godfrey rarely found these events to be worth getting excited over. A new law might be pronounced concerning grazing on royal pastures, the clergy might vote on some theological matter well over Godfrey’s head, or any number of equally mundane or dense topics could be brought up in these forums. On more rare occasions, a lord or clergyman might warn travelers not to use a certain road because a cyclops was spotted on it eating pilgrims, and volunteers were needed to drive it off, or some similar threat might need to be dealt with. Those sorts of announcements had a way of leaking out before the official message was given. And that got people excited like they were now.
The snow was wet in the cloudy, grey afternoon. It was partly melted, leaving large odorous puddles in the mud. Godfrey left Baruch at the stables by the gatehouse, patting the steed’s nose in farewell. Splashing mud up to his ankles, Godfrey made his way to the town square. There was a large crowd. Peasants, nobles, merchants, it seemed the whole town had come to satisfy their curiosity. Bishop Clovis stood atop a recently erected wooden platform with some of the local clergy and a few other bishops Godfrey did not know. A few knights wearing heraldry with voided white four-pointed stars set against black fields also stood near Clovis.
Spotting Walaric near the front of the crowd, Godfrey made his way towards the acolyte. Clovis was just starting into a speech, but Godfrey was more interested in catching his friend’s attention. He tugged on Walaric’s tunic, and the boy jumped.
“Godfrey.” Walaric gave a surprised smile.
“It’s good to see you.” Godfrey shook Walaric’s hand.
Most of the crowd was rapt in Clovis’ speech. Turning his full attention to the platform, Godfrey realized he had no idea who these black-clad knights were. He frowned at this revelation. He should have recognized the heraldry of all the major houses within Lortharain at least. They wore four-pointed stars like Clovis’ retainers but the colors were wrong. Perhaps they were the retainers of another bishop?
“Who are they?” Godfrey indicated the knights in the black tabards.
“The Knights of the Silver Sun,” Walaric curtly explained. “They are one of the orders that defend Azgald from the Clans.”
Nodding appreciatively but not fully understanding, Godfrey now began to listen to Clovis’ speech in earnest. It did not sound like he had missed much, mostly the pleasantries and formalities that came with addressing large crowds of varying social status. Gesticulating towards the crowd, Clovis now got to the true purpose of his return to Harv.
“The Kingdom of Azgald was founded at the end of the first great crusade into the Nordslands.” Clovis stretched out his hand. “It has only been their efforts, their sweat and blood that have prevented further Nordsman invasions into the Ostlands. Even so, Azgald’s strength has dwindled through the years.”
Godfrey searched his memory. His mother had spoken of family in Azgald. An uncle, grandparents, a few more distant relations had once lived there but were now long dead. He had never been that far north, nor did he ever think about going. A traveler had to cross the Freezing Sea to get there.
“The Silver Suns here with me bring most dire news,” Clovis continued. “The Nordsmen have resumed the war with Azgald under a new High King. He is both a fearless warrior and a cunning strategist. Many castles have burned under the banner of Alvir. Countless valiant knights have been slain by his hordes. The entire County of Fhunlan has been desecrated by his wrath. He has not spared children from his rage, and what his armies have done to the women they have captured is best to pass over in silence.”
Hanging on every word the Bishop said, Godfrey clenched his teeth at the injustice of it all. Walaric’s fists were balled. The Bishop went on to enumerate many more Nordsman misdeeds. He spoke of how the Nordsmen were servants of the dark gods, and were among the foulest men alive. There was no honor in these Nordsmen, and their name was a byword for treachery. So the Bishop said.
Many in the crowd were equally agitated. Some grimaced. Some were on the verge of tears. These Nordsmen sounded even worse than orcs. According to the Bishop, this High King Alvir was even allied with some of the larger orc tribes of the North now.
Godfrey vaguely remembered being told about the crusades sent north. Most of them were long ago and were passed down in bards’ songs like the Tale of Cheldric. Yet only a fool could not see what all of this was leading to.
“The Silver Suns and the other orders are strong,” Clovis said in a raised voice. “But their strength added to the lords and knights of Azgald is not enough anymore. High King Alvir has more orcs, cyclopes, and dwarves under his command than any Nordsman lord has ever had before. He has the loyalty of more Nordsman clans than any Nordsman High King in three centuries.”
The crowd grew increasingly agitated with every word the Bishop uttered. Walaric’s fists were clenched so tight now he appeared to be losing circulation in his hands. Someone had to do something about this Nordsman threat. Then Godfrey realized that he was someone.
“Who is better qualified to lead a new crusade into the Nordslands than the knights of Lortharain?” the Bishop asked, pointing to individual knights in the crowd. “After all, it is your lands that they protect. Remember, the War in Heaven is eternal and it is mirrored here in the mortal realms. The gods will bless those who join this crusade. The hardships you face along the way now are nothing compared to the reward you will see in the afterlife. Who will join? Who will join the crusade?”
Shouting erupted from the crowd. It was indiscernible. Without thinking, Godfrey found himself atop the platform. He had drawn his sword and raised it in the air.
“I, Godfrey de Bastogne, pledge my blade, Uriel, to the crusade.” He brandished his weapon for all to see. “I saved Harv from the terror of the undead, now I will be on the first ship to the North to save Azgald.”
Emboldened, Walaric jumped atop the platform too. He knelt before Bishop Clovis in supplication. Nodding solemnly, Clovis gestured for him to stand.
“With the permission of the holy priesthood,” Walaric said, rising. “I also pledge to be on that first ship.”
Others, mostly knights, also gave their pledge to join the crusade. A few pledged to renounce their lands and join the Silver Suns or offer money to the temples and shrines to help fund the crusade. Walaric turned to Godfrey, almost shaking with excitement. Elated, Godfrey slapped his friend’s shoulder before embracing him. It was good to know Godfrey would not be going alone. He nodded to himself reassuringly. Suddenly, Walaric furrowed his brow as he contemplated his friend.
“So what brought you back here?” Walaric asked.
Thinking for a moment, Godfrey remembered why he had traveled through the woods alone for the last week. Blushing with embarrassment, he looked at Bishop Clovis, who was in deep discussion with the Silver Suns. He flinched as he looked back to Walaric, unsure of what to say.
“I think I might have made a mistake,” Godfrey divulged as a wave of embarrassment washed over his face. “I was supposed to come here to buy weapons and armor for my father’s soldiers. He is worried that orcs are going to besiege Fuetoile Keep in the spring.”
“If they do that, all of Bastogne will be in danger,” Walaric gasped. “Harv, Vosg, Menz, all the towns and cities in the Duchy will be vulnerable. Does the Duke really think they’ll try to attack Fuetoile Keep itself?”
“He seems to think that,” Godfrey said, rubbing his chin. “We were going to go out on more patrols, try to see if we could find more camps or villages hidden in the woods.”
“Well you can’t go on crusade then.” Walaric frowned. “It sounds like you’re needed here. Your father will be furious when he hears that you’ve joined the crusade.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Godfrey confessed as his hand began to shake.
***
Lady Seda Eist studied Godfrey with a bemused smile. He was standing in the middle of the parlor of the Eist manor, and the floorboards creaked as Godfrey shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The air was musty. Account ledgers lay sprawled across a large desk near the back wall. Lady Eist hefted the bag of gold coins Godfrey had given her, and she poured them out over the desk. They clattered across the wooden surface, and Lady Eist quickly counted then recounted the coins.
“Yes...” Lady Eist nodded as she scooped the considerable number of coins back into the bag. “That should be enough to equip your father’s men. I’ll tell the servants to start loading the wagons immediately. Is it for the crusade?”
“Possibly.” Godfrey was hardly convinced by his own answer.
He still was unsure how his parents would react to the news that he had joined the crusade. His stomach sank at the thought, and his hand randomly twitched even hours after he pledged to go on crusade. Staring out the window, he frowned.
“There are a lot of dangers here too,” Godfrey added as casually as he could manage. “My father is very concerned about the orcs coming down from the mountains in the spring. They might already be gathering in the woods.”
“Even after all their losses this year?” Lady Eist bit her lip thoughtfully. “The Black Iron Mountains do not just spawn orcs on their own.”
Godfrey did not reply.
Though he refused to look directly at Lady Eist, Godfrey watched her reflection carefully in the glass. He pretended to be very interested in the movement of people outside, but he guessed Lady Eist was not fooled by this ruse. She examined the bag of gold coins again, then looked back at Godfrey. She shifted in her seat as if debating what to say to him. Finally, she let out a long breath.
“Not many people actually go on crusade when one is called.” Lady Eist absently toyed with a quill and ink bottle on the desk. “Many might vow to join in the beginning, but few follow through. Most are too concerned about affairs at home to listen to the gods’ call, but you’re youthful and idealistic. I don’t think you will let petty day-to-day concerns or fear stop you from doing something great with yourself.”
“Thanks,” Godfrey said, meeting her eyes for the first time since she mentioned the crusade. “You’re right. The crusade is too important. It doesn’t matter what other people think. The problems here at home will work themselves out.”
“The gods will protect you on their errand,” Lady Eist continued. “You’ve done my family a great service as well. My husband and I have not forgotten. He will not mind if I lend you some of his guards to escort your caravan back to Fuetoile Keep. Just be true to your word now like you were to us then.”
“I will,” Godfrey promised.
***
There were only five wagons in the caravan, but ox teams were slow and had to stick to wide and well-used paths. Godfrey thought about leaving the caravan behind. Baruch could make much better time than the wagons and take shortcuts the oxen could not. In the end, Godfrey’s sense of duty told him he could not simply leave the caravan to its own devices, even if it was well-guarded by others. This task had been entrusted to him by his father, however tedious it seemed.
It took nearly twice as long for the caravan to reach Fuetoile Keep as it took Godfrey to make the initial trip on his own. He had nearly forgotten how painfully slow traveling like this could be. He had only occasionally seen to escorting caravans with Fallard, and the experiences were hardly memorable. Caravans needed escorts because they attracted both brigands hungry for loot and monsters hungry for flesh. Godfrey’s previous experiences escorting slow, creaking wagons were not nearly so adventuresome though. At least it gave him plenty of time to think about how he would break the news to his parents about joining the crusade. It made the journey seem to last all the longer.
At last, as Fuetoile Keep appeared in the distance, a lump formed in Godfrey’s throat. However, the agony of waiting was growing worse than the fear of whatever his parents might say. Deciding he would prefer to face his parents sooner rather than later, he spurred Baruch onward ahead of the wagons laden with arms and armor. He stopped for a moment at the head of the caravan.
“You have things under control?” Godfrey asked the lead guard.
“Yes, my lord,” the man answered with a quizzical look.
“See that the wagons make it to the keep safely,” Godfrey ordered.
With that, Godfrey spurred Baruch forward, leaving the caravan behind. They were in sight of the castle now. The caravan was safe. Godfrey had little reason to worry about that now.
Approaching Fuetoile Keep, Godfrey was met at the gate by his father. Ulric’s expression was grave as the snow began to fall from the clouds overhead. At first, Godfrey was afraid his father was about to reprimand him for abandoning the wagons, but he realized it was not anger in the Duke’s eyes. His expression was numb and distant. It was as if the Duke was looking through his son rather than at him.
“Father?” Godfrey apprehensively asked as he got off Baruch.
“Your mother,” Ulric replied, gesturing for Godfrey to hurry after him.
Ulric turned and ran back to the keep faster than Godfrey had expected. Godfrey quickly removed his spangenhelm and tucked it under his arm. Rushing after his father through the outer and inner courtyards, Godfrey struggled to ask any coherent questions. The two made their way through the keep up to the Duke’s bed chambers before Godfrey could register any of it. Serfs, knights, and footmen readily parted in the halls for Ulric and his son. Godfrey caught bleak expressions on their faces as he passed. He was horrified to think what awaited them.
“What’s wrong with mother?” Godfrey gasped.
Turning to his son, Ulric shook his head. The Duke’s half-formed words barely crossed his lips as some barely audible expression of suffering. Godfrey had never seen his father so distressed. It was unnerving.
The Duke hesitated for a moment, then he burst into his bed chamber. Godfrey followed him in, still panting from his flight through the castle. Choking on incense as he entered the room, Godfrey tried to make sense of the scene before him. Turpin was muttering an incantation as he swung a censer near the Duke’s and Duchess’ bed. Lying in the bed, his mother gave several harsh coughs before taking in gasping breaths, and repeated this several times. Sir Rodair, Karl the Hammer, Sir Euric, Varin, and a handful more of Ulric’s closest retainers stood vigil at a respectful distance from the bed.
Ignoring them all, Godfrey bounded to his mother’s bed. She was damp with sweat and kept her eyes closed. Godfrey caressed his mother’s face. She was so weak right now.
“Mother?” Godfrey said, gripping her hand.
“Godfrey.” Regana opened her eyes.
“What is wrong?” Godfrey asked feverishly. “What is going on?”
“The sickness,” Regana managed between coughs. “The infection has gotten much worse. I am dying.”
“No,” Godfrey pleaded.
Yet the truth was written on her face. Godfrey could not deny it. Tears began to fall freely from both mother and son.
“You have to be strong,” Regana urged her son. “This is the will of the gods.”
“The gods?” Godfrey shook his head.
“We are here for a short season and then we go to their celestial realm.” Regana closed her eyes again. “The gods have work for our spirits there after we die.”
“I pledged while at Harv to go on crusade, and this is how the gods repay me?” Godfrey spat bitterly.
Silence filled the room except for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Godfrey stood as if to leave, but Ulric put his hand on his son’s shoulder. Godfrey stopped and looked into his father’s eyes. They were red and swollen from crying, just like Godfrey’s. He had never seen his father cry. The thought that his father could cry had not entered his mind before now. He squirmed uncomfortably at this revelation.
Seeing his father so vulnerable blunted Godfrey’s rage. He was frustrated and scared, but he knew there was really nothing he could do. What good would becoming bitter against the gods do?
Turning back to his mother, Godfrey saw her sitting upright in her bed. A small silver pendant rested in her palm. The pendant hung on a thin silver chain and was fashioned in the image of the griffin rampant Godfrey knew so well from his family’s heraldry.
“This pendant was a gift from your father when we were courting in Azgald.” Regana held the pendant out for Godfrey to take. “It had been in his family since before there was a Duchy of Bastogne. He said it was a symbol of vigilance and strength. Those qualities are especially needed on crusade. I think you should take it with you to Azgald. That is where the crusade is going?”
“Yes.” Godfrey bowed his head meekly.
“Then it is settled.” Regana dropped the pendant into Godfrey’s hand in between coughs. “Grant your mother her dying wish. Go and defend the home of her fathers. Wear this pendant around your neck until you fulfill your crusading vows. Remember vigilance and strength.”
Obediently, Godfrey clasped the pendant’s chain around his neck. The metal griffin slid over his tabard and rested atop his breast. Kissing her son on both his cheeks, Regana gestured for him to stand back.
Regana entered another deep coughing fit, which lasted for what seemed like an unreasonably long time. When it ended, the Duchess was lying down in obvious pain.
“Now everyone but Ulric get out,” Regana ordered, sitting up again. “Yes, even you, Chaplain Turpin. I have a few words for my husband before I die.”
Turpin bowed his head, and set the censer down on a nearby table. The time for incantations was at an end. Godfrey and the others shuffled out of the Duke’s and Duchess’ chambers and began to disperse. Unsure of where next to go, Godfrey started walking towards his room. Darkness had fallen outside, and the hallways were always colder than the rooms with hearths. Someone grabbed Godfrey’s shoulder from behind. Turning, Godfrey saw it was Turpin.
“Going on crusade is no small task.” Turpin frowned at Godfrey, releasing his shoulder. “Naturally your father will want me to accompany you.”
“But what about the orcs here in the borders of Bastogne?” Godfrey returned Turpin’s grimace.
“There is still time for the patrols,” Turpin reassured Godfrey. “It will be several months before the crusaders will be ready to go north. Spring will be the earliest that the crusade begins in earnest.”
“I see,” Godfrey said, relieved. “We will know if the orcs are really massing for an attack by then?”
“Exactly,” Turpin replied. “Try not to worry so much. You are a faithful knight whom the gods smile upon. This is all in their hands.”
“Right.” Godfrey bit his lip.
“Pray for your mother.” Turpin read Godfrey’s expression. “There is nothing else we can do for her now.”
There was bitterness in Turpin’s voice during this last statement—bitterness Godfrey could not account for. It was not Turpin’s mother who was dying. Yet beneath the chaplain’s cold exterior, Godfrey sensed Turpin was battling against something just beneath the surface.
Godfrey went to his room and changed out of his armor into a simple tunic. He was physically and mentally exhausted. He prayed for a long time that his mother would not die. He prayed that the gods would help her recover from this infection. Feeling nothing but worry, Godfrey eventually gave up on praying.
Despite tossing himself onto his bed, he could not sleep. The crusade, his mother’s impending death, orcs; all these things kept spinning through his mind. Fading in and out of an uneasy sleep, he thought he heard his father singing a funeral dirge sometime past midnight. Godfrey wept, but could not raise himself out of bed. Cursing fate, he finally succumbed to sleep for the remainder of the night.