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Turpin’s eyes followed Godfrey as he paced back and forth. The chaplain’s shoulder was bandaged where the arrow had pierced him, and he wore a simple tunic instead of his armor. He sat on a stool in Godfrey’s tent awkwardly, still sore from his fall off the ladder. Grimacing, Walaric stood with his arms crossed.
“How could he do this?” Godfrey blustered for the seventh time in an hour. “He tricked us. He used us to take Epsberg for himself.”
“What are you going to do?” Turpin shot back. “Besiege the castle again?”
“What if Tancred was the dragon from the vision?” Godfrey protested. “Is this not proof enough that I have to slay him? It’s for the crusade!”
Walaric and Turpin exchanged glances. Sensing their unease, Godfrey wondered if maybe he was wrong. He blushed with embarrassment as he realized his last remark had gone too far. None of this was going the way he thought it should. Why did everything have to be so complicated?
“You’re not making sense, Godfrey,” Walaric countered. “We should kill Azgaldians and other crusaders to help the crusade? That’s madness. Besides, Conrad and Tancred outnumber us anyway. We would all die for nothing.”
“But I have a magic sword,” Godfrey continued despite knowing he was wrong. “Does Uriel not signal the gods’ favor?”
“Even still,” Turpin interrupted, rubbing his brow. “One magic sword can help you, but it’s not enough to win a battle. Aside from that, do you think our men would be willing to fight against their fellow crusaders over a castle they had just won from the Nordsmen?”
“At least Epsberg is no longer in the Clans’ possession,” Walaric added.
“You’re right,” Godfrey relented. “But I won’t march with them again. I’m not helping those two anymore. We’re marching to Narlstad without Conrad and Tancred.”
“We’d be too few.” Turpin shook his head. “It was a gamble breaking the crusade up into these smaller armies to begin with.”
“Narlstad is only a couple of days southwest of us,” Godfrey persisted.
“A couple of days is plenty of time for a small army to get ambushed.” Walaric frowned.
“Tancred is offering our men their share of the loot,” Turpin cut in, changing the topic. “Let them have it, even if this whole situation is not exactly to your liking.”
“I didn’t come on crusade to get stuck in the middle of these power games,” Godfrey spat, stopping his pacing for the first time since they began talking. “There was already plenty of that back at home. Taking Epsberg’s treasures would make it look like I’m supporting Tancred’s claim.”
“If you don’t let the men have their loot, they may not be able to afford staying out here on campaign.” Walaric gestured out the tent door. “We have practical concerns to worry about. We need to buy food, repair armor and weapons, and so on. Let Tancred and Morgan argue about who will keep Epsberg.”
Godfrey paused, biting his lip.
“We don’t want desertions,” Godfrey conceded. “But Tancred and Conrad can defend their prize without me. We’re leaving at first light tomorrow.”
“I’ll let the men know to prepare to leave,” Turpin said.
“I’ll let Tancred know we’ll take the money.” Walaric gave Godfrey an earnest look.
Walaric and Turpin left the tent. Godfrey was still fuming, partly due to his anger at Tancred’s betrayal, but also because of his own overreaction to it. Or had he overreacted? Walaric and Turpin seemed to think so, but Godfrey was certain Tancred’s deception warranted a stronger reaction than a dismayed shrug.
Godfrey lit a candle as the Sun began to set. Pulling out a quill and ink bottle, he began searching for parchment. He was not good at writing. His script was poor, and the effort often cramped his hand on the few occasions he needed to write. But he needed advice from his father, and writing a letter was the only way to get that advice so far from home.
At last he found the parchment, sat at the small table he had taken from his room back at Fuetoile Keep, and went through the excruciating effort to write what was on his mind. The words were as difficult to find in his head as they were to put in ink. There were so many thoughts, so many conflicting feelings. It was well after dark, and several sheets of parchment had been crumpled or shredded before Godfrey finally finished his letter. Sealing it with hot wax from the candle, Godfrey then blew out the flame. He slept uneasily that night.
***
It was not quite dawn when Conrad came crunching across the frosty ground. Godfrey’s tent and the few personal belongings that accompanied it had already been packed with the baggage train, leaving him with Baruch. Godfrey gritted his teeth as he spotted Conrad moving towards him from among the crusaders preparing for the march.
“Heading to Narlstad already then?” Conrad sneered.
“You’re quick aren’t you?” Godfrey rolled his eyes.
“My men are ready to go when you are, o chosen one,” Conrad replied with a mocking bow. “Just give the command.”
“I thought you would have wanted to stay with your prize,” Godfrey snorted, mounting Baruch. “Didn’t you come here for land and treasure?”
“Bastogne took its share of treasure from Epsberg.” Conrad’s smirk was razor-thin. “There is plenty more to get still.”
His rage boiling, Godfrey made no reply.
“I’ll see you on the road,” Conrad said, then turned and left.
The crusaders were ready to depart just as the Sun rose. Godfrey had not spoken directly with Tancred since before the assault on Epsberg. There was nothing to say. With the crusaders on the march and Godfrey riding at the head of his knights, part of him hoped this would be the last he would have to see of the Duke of Pavik.
Then there was also that part of Godfrey which longed for Madeline. Their encounters had been few and brief, but he knew she burned for him as he did for her. Of course her father would stand between them. That was how it worked in all those silly romantic poems. Godfrey gritted his teeth at the thought. That obstruction was bad enough. Why did Tancred have to foil his efforts in the crusade too?
The men of Pavik were hard at work repairing the breaches in the wall. The damage was obviously significant from Godfrey’s vantage point, but not beyond a few days’ labor by a handful of skilled artisans. Tancred would soon be secure in his new fortress.
“Let him rot in his prize,” Godfrey muttered to himself, taking a final look back at Epsberg.
“It’s almost as if he’s expecting someone to contest his claim,” Turpin noted from beside him.
The chaplain was wearing his armor again, but he winced as he moved.
“You entrust Conrad with the rearguard?” Walaric frowned from the other side of Godfrey.
“No,” Turpin admitted. “But if we don’t act like we do, this whole expedition is over.”
“Right.” Godfrey gave a humorless smile.
“At least he’s downwind of us.” Walaric gestured behind him. “We don’t have to smell the likes of him anyway.”
The men had only been marching for a few hours when Godfrey spotted one of the crusade’s scouts emerging from the woods down the road. He was a small, pale man wrapped in a dark cloak. Godfrey instantly recognized him as Varin. Despite his eccentricities, Varin was an accomplished ranger, the sort of man who was only seen when he wanted to be seen. He was bounding to Godfrey as quickly as his legs would carry him. He would not overtly display such urgency unless something was awry.
“My lord,” Varin rasped, clutching his longbow with white knuckles. “Nordsmen are approaching Epsberg.”
“Have they discovered us?” Godfrey asked, gesturing for the crusaders to stop.
“No, sire.” The ranger locked eyes with Godfrey, another unusual behavior for the strange man. “They are taking a different path.”
“We could intercept them,” Walaric cut in enthusiastically. “We could ambush them before they reach Epsberg.”
“How many?” Turpin inquired.
“Many thousands.” Varin began to catch his breath. “They are more than us at any rate. They have cyclopes too.”
Godfrey swallowed hard at that last bit of information. Cyclopes were dumb brutes but no less deadly for their lack of wit. Encountering a single cyclops could be the death of many men. Encountering cyclopes could be the death of an army.
“We could wait until they reach Epsberg,” Turpin suggested. “Crush them between the castle and ourselves like at Biorkon.”
The plan made sense to Godfrey, but he had only just vowed the night before not to help Tancred anymore. The gods must have a sense of humor, Godfrey decided. Part of him really wished he could just keep marching to Narlstad, but he knew he was better than that. He would do the right thing, even if reluctantly.
“It’s too good of an opportunity to miss,” Turpin admonished, reading Godfrey’s expression. “Don’t let your pride get in the way.”
“Rodair,” Godfrey called back to the retinue. “Send word to the rearguard. We’re going to follow these Nordsmen back to Epsberg and strike them once they lay siege to the castle.”
“Yes, my lord.” Sir Rodair spurred his mount back to the rearguard marching behind them somewhere along the twisting road beyond the baggage train.
“Varin,” Godfrey addressed the ranger. “Let’s follow the Nordsmen from a safe distance. I don’t want them to know we’re on to them.”
“I’ll pass the word to the other scouts.” Varin bowed and hurried off into the woods.
Leaving the baggage train behind, the crusaders departed from the road and began marching through the trees. The frost had melted, leaving the ground soft and muddy. The smell of pine needles mixed with the sweat and grime of the men and horses. Rodair galloped back to the knights several minutes later.
“Conrad is taking his men back to Epsberg the way they came,” Rodair reported as his horse slowed to a trot, matching Baruch’s stride. “He says that if you will attack them from the south, he will strike them from the west.”
“That will be the same positions we attacked Epsberg from during the siege,” Godfrey noted. “Fair enough. Hitting the Nordsmen from two directions at once will add to their confusion.”
“But it will be more difficult to pull off,” Turpin murmured.
“Right.” Godfrey tensed in frustration. “But we don’t have time to deliberate. Conrad is already moving into position.”
Yielding, Turpin fell silent. Somewhere up in the branches, a raven crowed. It swooped down, passing just over Godfrey’s head. The color flushed from Rodair’s face as he saw it happen. Other crusaders saw it too. They began muttering uneasily. It was a sign, an omen. All eyes turned to Walaric. At first, the acolyte’s skin was pale, and his mouth hung open. After a moment, however, the trance was broken though his expression remained pensive. Considering what he had just witnessed, the acolyte pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“It’s not strictly a bad omen,” Walaric noted. “We had already committed to going along with Conrad’s plan.”
Some of the color returned to Rodair’s face, though he still appeared uncomfortable. The other knights stared, waiting for further explanation. Though not a fully trained priest, Walaric commanded the respect of the crusaders by nature of his chosen vocation. Even an acolyte’s words were to be taken seriously when he spoke on behalf of the gods. That is what Godfrey had come to see at least.
“If it were a bad omen,” Walaric explained, “it would have come before we decided. But since it came after, it means the raven will pass over our enemies’ corpses, not ours.”
Satisfied with Walaric’s analysis, Godfrey and the crusaders relaxed. The interpretation seemed sound. Time would tell if the omen was interpreted correctly. The march resumed.
“Did you just make that up?” Godfrey whispered to Walaric once he was close enough for only the acolyte to hear.
“It’s my prerogative to interpret omens how I see them,” Walaric huffed. “The raven is generally an ominous sign, but I stand by what I said.”
Turpin grunted but said nothing. Apparently Walaric was not the only one within earshot of what Godfrey was saying. Godfrey was about to say something else in response to Turpin’s reaction. With a frown, Turpin raised his hand, cutting off his query.
“Don’t tempt the gods.” Turpin shook his head. “You got your answer.”
“But you see it differently?” Godfrey asked. “You can interpret omens too. You’re a chaplain after all.”
“A servant of the gods has interpreted the omen,” Turpin insisted. “You got your answer. Don’t let the men see you fretting over it.”
“Right.” Godfrey glanced over his shoulder at the knights behind him.
The crusaders appeared oblivious to the exchange. Fair enough. He would let it go. The gods were with Godfrey, and that was what mattered. Letting go of what else the omen might mean, Godfrey turned his thoughts to more pressing matters.
Varin or another ranger occasionally appeared out of the trees, instructing the army to adjust the direction of their march, to wait a few minutes until another scout came back with intelligence, to describe the enemy’s movements, or to report on hazards they had dealt with.
“Thank the gods for good scouts,” Godfrey exclaimed, pointing out one such neutralized hazard Varin had dealt with.
It was a group of about half a dozen giant spiders lying on their backs a few yards away. Each was roughly the size of a large horse. With sickly ichor weeping from punctures and slashes across their bodies, each spider was quite certainly dead. Walaric gave a low whistle in response.
As the army continued through the woods, Godfrey spotted a few other monsters or beasts similarly slain. Walaric was quick to point out the ones Godfrey did not see or failed to comment on. There were more giant spiders of the same brownish red hue as the first set. Some hideous grey-furred beasts in the shape of men lay sprawled in a stony creek, pale from the loss of blood. An eviscerated dire bear lay half concealed in a bush to Godfrey’s left. It was Turpin’s turn to whistle in amazement at this last feat. Godfrey would have to remember to reward Varin somehow for that one.
At last, the crusaders came to a clearing in the woods. Epsberg was in sight for the second time that day, far sooner than Godfrey would have wished to see it otherwise. Varin was right. The Nordsman host had gathered around the southern side of the castle. They outnumbered Godfrey’s crusaders at least three to one. However, the Nordsmen had also just arrived. They had not yet begun to cross the causeway to the breach in the wall Godfrey’s crusaders had made the day before.
The Nordsmen had cyclopes too, just as Varin had said. The orcs in the Nordsman army were roughly the size of a man and were almost indistinguishable from men at this distance, but the cyclopes were nine feet tall and much broader. There were dozens of them. Godfrey unwillingly thought back to what he had seen cyclopes do to men. He clenched his teeth but shook the memory after a moment.
“Advance,” Godfrey ordered. “Go nice and steady. Crossbows to the rear. Stay well behind the spearmen, and fire over their heads. Knights come with me to the right flank.”
“Wait.” Walaric pointed to the Clan army.
Part of the enemy force had turned to face the crusaders, but it was the cavalier carrying a white flag of truce coming from their midst that caught Godfrey’s attention. Another Nordsman rider followed the first, and a pair of cyclopes flanked either side of the two horse-mounted warriors. Four such monstrous brutes seemed excessive for the occasion. Two would have been plenty.
“Now they want to parley,” Godfrey sighed. “Where is Conrad?”
“I don’t see him.” Turpin frowned, scanning the trees from which the crusaders of Errans were supposed to emerge.
“Maybe this will buy us some time for him to get in position at least,” Godfrey said.
“If he comes at all,” Turpin muttered.
Godfrey had not wanted to consider that possibility. Yet it had pressed at him from the back of his mind since Rodair first told him of Conrad’s plan to attack from another direction. Grimacing, Godfrey could not deny the possibility that Conrad’s arrival might be too late, whether it was intentional or circumstantial.
“Conrad is selfish and foul but he would not abandon some five thousand crusaders just because of our personal differences.” Godfrey tried to reassure Turpin as much as himself, “Weren’t you the one just saying we all had to act like we were in this together?”
Turpin’s expression appeared to be caught between conflicting emotions. Those were the words he said, but those same words went against his general pessimism. Godfrey could hardly blame the chaplain for doubting Conrad’s loyalty. Just a short while ago, Godfrey himself was musing over the idea of leaving Tancred to his fate. Godfrey hoped that if the honor that compelled him to come to Tancred’s aid failed Conrad, strategic opportunity would not. Visibly conflicted, Turpin said nothing for a moment. Finally, the chaplain’s gaze turned towards the sky. As if remembering something from long ago, he smiled.
“Here’s to putting our faith in the gods.” Turpin raised his own white flag of truce before spurring his mount out to meet the Clan envoy.
Godfrey and Walaric spurred their mounts forward to catch up with Turpin. Upon closer examination, Godfrey noticed the cyclopes guarding the envoy differed from the ones he had seen back in Lortharain. These cyclopes were bluish-grey in color and carried large spears and shields, unlike the greenish-brown cyclopes that preferred to carry clubs or oversized hammers back home.
The lead rider from the Nordsman envoy planted his flag in the ground as they stopped. The muddy ground gave a short, soft gurgle as Turpin likewise planted his flag a few paces away. Godfrey nudged Baruch past Turpin a pace and dismounted. The second Nordsman rider met Godfrey and also dismounted his horse. The wind picked up, flapping flags and cloaks about noisily.
“This seems like an excessive retinue for a parley,” Godfrey said, indicating the cyclopes. “Or is it the Clan way to have their opposition smashed to a pulp if negotiations do not go to their liking?”
“I am negotiating from a position of strength.” The Nordsman mimicked Godfrey’s gesture towards the cyclopes. “These loyal bodyguards are a symbol of the strength I command.”
“High King Alvir,” Godfrey ventured a guess.
“High Warlord Alvir in your tongue,” Alvir corrected. “Not just anyone can be born to the throne in the Nordslands. Clansmen have to fight to win and keep their titles and lands.”
“That’s not too different from how things work in Lortharain,” Godfrey snorted.
“And you are?” Alvir inquired.
“Godfrey de Bastogne.”
“You are the leader of the crusade?” Alvir looked the Bastognian crusaders over. “I thought there would be more of you.”
“There are more crusaders,” Godfrey reassured him. “Some are taking other lands from you as we speak. Some are closer than you think.”
Alvir frantically twisted on the spot, scanning the tree line. In that brief moment, Godfrey caught a glimpse of a dark dragon-shaped pendant hanging from a chain around Alvir’s neck. The dragon certainly was a popular heraldic device in these lands, even among opposing peoples.
Alvir’s momentary nervousness quickly subsided, though. He turned more slowly in the opposite direction, attempting to catch any sign of an approaching army. Silently, Godfrey cursed as Alvir’s eyes narrowed on him. Godfrey had given away too much too soon. Conrad had better hurry.
“A bluff.” Alvir waved his hand dismissively. “You think you can make me surrender with empty threats?”
“Perhaps I am stalling you until Conrad the Wolf appears on your flank with another five thousand men,” Godfrey suggested with a shrug.
“Conrad the Wolf is on crusade?” Alvir huffed. “Now I know you are lying. I’ve heard of his exploits, his selfish nature. He would not come on such a venture without something to gain.”
“Even if I were lying,” Godfrey slowly deliberated, “you are in a bad position, and you know it. More than five thousand crusaders stand before you here. Inside Epsberg is the Duke of Pavik with almost another three thousand men. You would not come out well even if you survived the attack from just my men and Tancred’s.”
“My cyclopes would also cost you dearly,” Alvir noted. “They aren’t just strong, but also too stupid to know when to retreat from a fight. Their stupidity grants them bravery beyond any of your knights. You may bloody my army on this field, but you would be annihilated to a man. I would make sure of it.”
Godfrey stared Alvir down, contemplating the risks. By the gods, where was Conrad? Alvir looked around with a disappointed expression. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the Nordsman released a heavy sigh after a moment.
“Well it seems your friend is not coming,” Alvir said with a smirk.
Damn his soul to the darkest abyss, Godfrey silently cursed. Damn you, Conrad. Damn you to the lowest hell.
“Apparently not,” Godfrey conceded. “But I do have this.”
As Godfrey unsheathed Uriel, Alvir took a step back in surprise. The sparkling blade caused the cyclopes to wince. The High Warlord’s and his bodyguards’ shock was greater than Godfrey had anticipated. Godfrey extended the sword towards Alvir for him to examine. Squinting, Alvir studied it.
“You have the blessing of your gods,” Alvir grumbled.
The High Warlord brooded. His expression was stern. Now Godfrey felt he had an advantage over the man.
“What are your terms?” Alvir demanded.
“Withdraw from the Eastern Marches immediately,” Godfrey proclaimed without hesitation.
“That’s it?” Alvir asked after a moment. “You don’t want me to agree to cease hostilities, pay a ransom, or cede more land to you?”
“No.” Godfrey shook his head. “I don’t think you would honor that sort of treaty after the crusade disperses. We need to kill enough of your soldiers to ensure that any treaties we make with the Clans can be enforced by Azgald after we return home.”
“That’s a rather insolent position,” Alvir hissed.
“I am negotiating from a position of strength.” Godfrey sheathed his sword emphatically. “And next we meet, I will be negotiating from a position of greater strength.”
“We shall see.” Alvir’s lips curled darkly. “My gods are also with me.”
“So it is with the War in Heaven,” Godfrey retorted.
Alvir turned, taking a few steps back to his horse. He paused. The wind died down. Alvir’s retainer glanced at the High Warlord curiously from atop his steed, but said nothing.
“You’ll come to regret not settling this now.” Alvir shot a glance back at Godfrey.
As the High Warlord, his retainer, and the cyclopes made their way back to the Nordsman army, Godfrey wondered if letting Alvir go was the right decision. The magic sword seemed to frighten the Nordsman enough, but Godfrey had deliberately chosen not to reveal the exact nature of its powers, instead letting the High Warlord’s imagination run wild. No, Godfrey needed more men than he had now to win a battle like this.
Godfrey mounted Baruch, and turned back to Walaric and Turpin. The chaplain nodded his approval, as did Walaric when their eyes met.
“Withdraw fifty paces,” Godfrey ordered his crusaders.
With the clanking of spears, shields, and chainmail, the men complied. Alvir’s forces withdrew past the crusaders as the men of Pavik cautiously watched from Epsberg’s walls. When the Nordsmen were out of sight, the crusaders and Azgaldians cheered. Duke Tancred rode out from the gate with a few of his knights.
“That was High Warlord Alvir.” Tancred pointed in the direction the Nordsmen had gone.
“So I have learned,” Godfrey muttered.
“What were the terms of your parley?” Tancred pressed.
“A small respite,” Godfrey gestured dismissively. “He is withdrawing his army from the Eastern Marches.”
“Surely he knows there must be other crusaders in the Eastern Marches,” Tancred mused. “I am surprised you convinced him to retreat so easily.”
“Were Conrad here we could have killed—” Godfrey stopped mid-sentence.
Conrad approached Godfrey atop his steed. The crusaders from Errans were emerging from the surrounding trees. The closer Conrad got, the tighter Godfrey’s jaw grew.
“We could have killed the whole Nordsman army,” Godfrey spat, finishing his sentence just as Conrad arrived with his retainers behind him.
Conrad opened his mouth to speak, but Godfrey struck him in the jaw with his fist. The Duke of Errans fell off his horse, plopping into the mud at the unexpected blow. Astonished gasps escaped the knights around the gathered lords.
“You waited.” Godfrey pointed an accusing finger down at Conrad. “You held your men back, hoping I would attack the Nordsmen without you.”
Conrad’s eyes flashed in anger up at Godfrey, but he said nothing.
“Deny it,” Godfrey dared.
One of Conrad’s knights helped him off the ground. Conrad wiped the mud from his tabard but still did not answer. His eyes burned with hate, telling Godfrey everything he needed to know.
“That was their High Warlord there,” Godfrey shouted. “We could have defeated his army, and ended the crusade here today!”
“You are the one with the sacred blade.” Conrad spat blood into the mud. “But it’s hard to imagine how you won the gods’ favor with such cowardice.”
“There is a difference between cowardice and prudence,” Tancred said, speaking up for the first time in Godfrey’s defense.
“I’ve had it with you too,” Godfrey shouted back at Tancred, too angry to understand what the Duke of Pavik had actually said. “Were it not for you, none of this would have happened. Keep your new castle, but don’t expect me to come back again.”