The Redsword Peer

On this day, more than any other, Gregor wished he could ride. The sun was shining, and there were a few wispy clouds in the sky. A gentle breeze tugged at the leaves around him. He closed his eyes, smiling slightly as he felt the cool air on his ashen face. Would it be like this when he finally rode? The air brushing past him, his steed’s hooves thundering into the ground?

A fist rapped him on his shoulder, bringing the young warrior out of his ponderings to see the face of his father, eyebrow raised in question. Gregor felt himself flush at being caught daydreaming. “Sorry,” he said, bowing his head.

The elder Redsword sighed. “Gregor, I understand. Compared to your other skills, this may seem mundane. I felt the same way when I was undergoing my training.” Gregor looked up at that. His father never spoke much of his time as a Peer, having given up the title to focus on his family and lands. “But as a Peer, you are expected to care for your followers and allies, to make sure they are fed and clothed.”

Gregor nodded. To be a Peer in the Kingdom of Illin did not just mean furthering their Saint’s agenda, or combating the vile scale skins of the North. It meant knowing how to prepare food or drink, as the first Peers had over a century ago during the First Crusade. As blessed warriors, they had held the power to cleanse disease and rot, allowing the meagre supplies of the First Crusade to last much longer than they had any right to.

It was also a humbling act, reminding that for all their skill at arms, warriors were nothing without farmers. Of course, Gregor’s great grandfather, Redblade, had chosen to cultivate a rather specific crop when he had settled in the kingdom of Illin – grapes. And it had been Gregor’s grandfather who had hit upon the idea of making their own wine out of the grapes. And since then, all Peers in the Redsword family had been educated in the ways of wine making.

It had turned out to be a great boon in their efforts to be accepted by the rest of the upper class – nobles were fond of wine, and the Redsword name had become synonymous with the finest wines in the entire kingdom. Of course there were also slanderous rumours and barbed comments to contend with as a result, but such was life.

“Good. Now then – which grapes are best suited for winemaking? Large or small?” the elder Redsword asked, folding his burly arms across his chest. A simple question, and Gregor felt his eyes narrow in annoyance despite himself.

“Small. The flavour is in the skin,” the young half-orc replied, letting his gaze drift to the rows of grapevines surrounding them. Hmm. Too big here – they must have wandered into a section of the vineyard set aside for cultivating regular grapes for consumption. “These…would do for a more…commercial vintage,” he guessed, looking to his father for confirmation. The orc nodded, and motioned for Gregor to continue. “Bloodborn?” the younger Redsword offered.

“Correct. We make about two hundred gallons of Bloodborn here. Why is that?”

Ah, this bit he knew. “The location is poor. We’re at the foot of a hill, so the soil is rarely drained enough.” It was strange how poor soil led to good wine. There was probably a lesson in there about great things coming from substandard origins. Before his father could field another question, the half-orc continued. “But the facing is correct, so I suppose the Redsword vines are higher up?” he guessed, glancing up the slope they were on, filled with rows and rows of vines entwined around wooden stakes.

Anders Redsword the Third did not smile, but he did nod before making his way up the hill. Gregor allowed himself a smile of victory before following.

Picking grapes was not as simple as it seemed. Gregor bit back a groan of annoyance as another of the precious pods burst under his fingers, staining them red. He idly sucked the juice off his fingers, noting the flavour. Not quite Redsword vintage, but it would certainly become that in time. If he ever got enough grapes.

His father was helping him of course – continuing a simple family tradition. Upon reaching maturity, all Redswords made their first bottle of Redsword Wine. It would be theirs and theirs alone, to do with as they saw fit. Anders was picking the grapes off the fine with practised ease, gently tugging them free before throwing them into the wooden bucket he had brought for the occasion. “Take your time,” he advised, catching his son’s look.

Take his time? How did that help? Gregor frowned as he reached for another, gently tugging at it. The stem refused to break. He felt like tightening his grip and pulling harder, but that hadn’t worked out before. Maybe that’s what his father meant? Gregor gently tugged again. Still the stem did not break. Hmmm. If he couldn’t hold the grape tighter...how about the vine?

Success!

Wait, how did patience factor into that?

Hmmm...maybe his father had meant to keep tugging on the grape until it came free? Huh, that DID make sense...but all that was immaterial now. He had managed to find an answer, on his own! He turned to regard his father -

“Lord Redsword!”

- only to be interrupted as one of the servants from their manse ran up, face pale, and breathing hard. Anders merely cocked an eyebrow as the human neared. Clad in a simple waistcoat, Gregor recognised the man as Finnegan, one of the butlers who served in the familial manse. “Raiders!” the hurried servant gasped out as he came to a stop in front of the elder Redsword, doubling over as he tried to catch his breath.

“Raiders?” Anders asked, the servant straightening up and nodding.

“Brass Keep Renegades my lord! A pigeon came from Harvests End just now!” the human explained, wringing his hands together. Gregor blinked and looked to his father.

“Gregor. Head to the armoury and fetch your equipment. I shall rally the riders,” the older orc ordered. Gregor nodded, turning away and breaking into a run, grapes and bucket forgotten.

Brass Keep Renegades.

Outcasts, criminals, scum of the vilest kind. Gregor knew their story well – how could he not? The Redsword lands were right on the border between the Illin Kingdom and the Fean Alliance. Once the garrison of a fortress charged with protecting the southernmost farmlands of the Alliance, the Renegades broke their oaths and abandoned their posts for reasons known only to them. That had been thirty years ago – thirty years in which the Renegades morphed from a well-disciplined bandit company to a full blown mercenary organisation.

Criminals of all sorts flocked to their metal shod banner, forming a brotherhood of killers and thieves. And what was worst was that they had no true base, no staging area which the Illish or Feanese could attack. The Renegades had swiftly abandoned their namesake fortress and formed a caravan of sorts, prowling all along the border between the Kingdom and the Alliance, always one step ahead of both.

And now and again, they would send out small bands to steal what they could not make or barter for. Such as the one even now violating Redsword lands. Gregor felt righteous anger welling inside him, embracing it, letting it distract him from the dull ache forming in his legs. He was not used to running so swiftly – he had always preferred marching to running, unlike his brother Michael. It was more efficient over longer distances. At least until he was allowed to ride. Ride, like his father and his grandfather. Hooves thundering against soil, wind blowing past him. It would be glorious.

But that was irrelevant now.

The path to the barracks – his usual haunt – normally took half an hour to walk from the vineyards. It was a route he often trod. That day he made it across the distance in ten minutes. He burst into the barracks, panting heavily, to be confronted by the sight of his family’s soldiers arming up. The knights and other riders had already headed off to the stables to mount up and meet with his father, leaving Gregor with the infantry.

“Form up outside!” he ordered, moving through the bustling crowd to the armour racks. Normally he would have worn his own armour, but that was in the family barracks back in the estate. No time to fetch it. Well, if it was good enough for those who served under the Redswords, it was good enough for the Redswords themselves!

He crossed the main hall of the barracks, stepping past men and women buckling their armour on and grabbing weapons. Stepping into the actual storage room, he took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom before casting about for some protection. Grabbing a gambeson, he pulled it over his tunic before locating a shirt of chainmail to wear. They felt somewhat too large, but a tightened belt would hold them in place. A breastplate followed, before he hastily buckled a set of tassets to hang down over his thighs. There wasn’t any time to find a set of pauldrons, so he grabbed a pair of bracers and strapped them to his arms. He was clad in a lot less than he was used to wearing when going into a fight, but it would do. He’d just have to watch his limbs and rely on a shield a touch more than usual.

He stepped out, nodding in satisfaction as the last few stragglers made their way outside, still fastening armour and weapons. Gregor stepped over to the racks and picked up a simple round shield and a sword. Not his preferred armaments, but ones that he had been trained in nonetheless – his father had been adamant about Gregor being able to handle any kind of weapon he could come across, reasoning that it was all too easy for one to end up separated from their preferred weapon and having to improvise with back-up and salvaged gear.

An idea that was already proving true. Gregor would have had to run all the way back to the estate, to his family’s own armoury to fetch his own equipment – an unacceptable delay. He stepped out to join the soldiers already waiting outside, drawn up into ranks, their spears held high and shields slung around their backs.

“Sergeant?” the half-orc called, scanning the people arranged before him.

“Here, sir,” a woman said, stepping forwards and saluting. Her leather helmet had a red horsetail plume to make her stand out from the others. She was short and stocky, looking almost like a tall dwarf rather than a human.

“Your name?” Gregor asked, hearing hoof beats approaching.

“Jocelyn, sir.”

“Sergeant Jocelyn,” the young Redsword repeated, making sure he had the name right. The woman nodded. “Are you aware of the situation?”

“No. Heard the call to arms and got everyone ready as quick as possible,” she replied, her gaze flickering to the arranged ranks behind her. Some twenty soldiers made up the unit she commanded, Gregor noted after a quick headcount.

“Raiders. Cavalry is going to go ahead and pin them in place to give us time to catch-up and deal with them,” the Peer explained, turning away from the sergeant as a rider reached them, their horse slowing to a trot. “What news from my father?” Gregor asked.

“He’s riding out now with his retinue. You are to follow with all haste,” the messenger reported. “His plan is to harass the enemy and keep them confined to the village until you are able to engage.”

A risky ploy. His father’s cavalry would not be able to fight effectively in the streets of Harvests End, but they would dominate any engagement in the surrounding fields. The raiders would know this, and probably hunker down in the village as they regrouped and figured out a way to break out. In their position Gregor would have formed a knot, with shields and spears on the outside, and march in that formation until the cavalry was forced to turn back at the Feanese border.

Hopefully, the Brass Keep Renegades would be too scattered throughout the village to form up in such a formation until he got there with the infantry.

“Understood,” Gregor replied, turning away from the messenger as the man spun his horse and took off to re-join the Earl. “Sergeant, with me,” he said to Jocelyn. “Soldiers of Redsword! Form up! Column, two wide!” he barked out to the soldiers, the men and women swiftly arranging themselves in the formation.

“You may want this, sir,” Jocelyn said, removing her helm and offering it to the half-orc.

Gregor shook his head. “Keep it. I’ll go without. Should be distinct enough for them to keep track,” the Peer countered, glancing over his shoulder at his soldiers.

His soldiers.

His responsibility.

“Soldiers of Redsword, quick march!”

Harvests End was a small rural community about a day’s march from the Redsword estate. It had grown from a simple tavern amidst farms to something approaching a village over the past fifty years. A blacksmith and a tanner had settled down and established themselves by the tavern to take advantage of the passing travellers who would stay there, plying their trades and making a modest income. The tavern itself, which had originally borne the name that would be granted to the hamlet, and was now known as The Earl’s Arms, had become the heart of the community. It was hardly a choice target for raiders seeking coin. But it probably tempted a few Brass Keep Renegades with its storerooms of grain. The bandits could hardly grow their own food after all.

Three steps walking, three steps jogging. At their current pace they would reach Harvests End just after nightfall – the perfect time for a trapped enemy to attempt an escape. The weather remained pleasant during their journey. No looming clouds or oncoming storms to herald the coming battle, not at all like the tales the minstrels spun. Somehow, Gregor felt disappointed in that. The coming action would undoubtedly become part of local folklore: the valiant Redswords descending upon the Renegades and droving them back to their holes in the wilderness.

He glanced over his shoulder at the column of men and women following his pace, spears braced against shoulders and shields hanging off straps. None of them seemed particularly tired, and they had made good time. Still…

“Sergeant?”

“Sir?”

“How far are we from the village, by your reckoning?” the young Peer asked.

The woman by his side took a moment to figure it out. “A half hour at our current pace,” she supplied.

Gregor frowned but nodded. Not as close as he wanted, but it would have to do. “Soldiers! March!” he yelled, slowing his own pace to a regular march. He heard a bit of a commotion behind him as the column suddenly stalled to match his new pace.

“Sir?”

“We cannot run into battle. Our troops need to have strength to fight, after all,” the Peer explained, casting a side-glance at Jocelyn. “My father can pin enemies in place for days if need be. He has before.”

It was amongst his favourite stories actually, of the peasant uprising thirteen years ago. A motley band of rebellious farmers and hunters had formed in the south, united by their superstition and ignorance. As home of the Keeper Order, many of the large cities of the Illin Kingdom hosted great numbers of magicians who were viewed with suspicion and distrust by the common folk. Gregor could understand that, even though he himself was an invoker. The things he could do were wondrous and dangerous, requiring careful training to be employed safely, and more than one magician had in the past taken advantage of their powers to exploit and victimise the peasantry.

The lynching of a local witch though was going too far. The woman’s family had demanded justice, and the constable sent to investigate was branded a sympathiser and attacked by the commoners. Emboldened by such actions, neighbouring villages and farms began to display open hostility to any magicians in their midst. A few Keepers were caught up in the trouble, with their Order demanding high reparations for this breach of trust.

Eager to maintain the cordial relationship between the Kingdom and the Order, Queen Louise Libertas had ordered the peasants to stand down from their witch hunts. Those who did not would be branded traitors to the crown for seeking to upset the relationship Illin had with the Keepers. The Queen sent in the Peers to enforce her command, trusting that their reputation would minimise bloodshed. And it had – the news that the Saint-blessed warriors were coming had driven many of the peasants to flee for their homes, leaving behind only the most zealous of witch-haters.

The diminished mob refused to bow to the wishes of a Queen obviously corrupted by magic however, and set out towards the capital on a deluded quest to save the kingdom. The Peers moved to intercept, but were confounded by the terrain, which was unfamiliar to many of them, but all too familiar to the local peasants they were trying to catch.

It was Anders Redsword who found the zealots first, riding hard for several days to intercept them, and immediately engaging to slow their advance. Relying on circling hit and run strikes, he forced the peasants to bunch together, forming a square with their weapons braced in all directions to discourage his cavalry from harassing them. It worked, but it also slowed them so much that the other Peers were able to catch up and attack as well, ultimately slaying each and every last one of the traitors.

A simple tactic that they would re-enact today. And the people of Harvests End would have a story of their own to share, of the Redswords who came to their aid. It was going to be glorious.

No matter how many times he smelt it, the tell-tale scent of ash and blood never failed to make him grimace in disgust. It was a foul smell, full of ill omen. A wind had started blowing, carrying the scent towards them from the ruin of Harvests End.

And a ruin it was – the buildings had been gutted by fire, dying embers glittering in the dark. Shapes moved amidst the fallen stones and lumber, merely silhouettes from where they stood. Gregor could hear the men and women behind him shifting, unnerved by the sight.

“Stand fast,” he spoke, barely having to raise his voice to be heard. The soldiers had fanned out, forming a line as they neared the village. Jocelyn was still by his side, her face hidden in the darkness of her helm.

“As you said sir,” she noted, nodding at the ruins they were approaching. “Your father kept them here for us to catch.” Gregor nodded back to acknowledge her comment before closing his eyes, concentrating. The magic of the Peers was a subtle thing, harder to identify unlike the tricks of regular channelers, or the obviousness of conjurers. Something brushed against his consciousness, and the young half-orc smiled.

“He is on the other side of the village, about a hundred feet from the perimeter,” the Peer stated, opening his eyes. Next to him, Jocelyn spared him a glance before turning her attention back to the village. The raiders within had formed a series of barricades along the roads leading into town.

“It’s not going to be easy, forcing our way through that,” the woman said, nodding at the barricades. “Must’ve set them up to stop the cavalry.”

Gregor nodded. In a panic, the bandits had fortified their position before realizing they were trapped. Everything was going according to plan. Now came the tricky part – cracking open the defences. “Have the soldiers scatter into a skirmish formation and stay low. Let us see how close we can get.”

“Sir?”

“It is dark; they will not be able to see us. Also, my father is keeping their attention,” the half-orc replied, scanning the town before them. He could make out faint hints of movements, but no clear shapes. But the enemy was there, he knew it. “If we can make it over the barricades, have everyone form into a shield wall to let the rest of us over. If not, we pull back, form up and march in.” Sending in people piecemeal would only get them killed if the enemy became aware of them.

It was night time, so the odds of them sneaking up on the raiders were decent. Of course, Gregor’s soldiers would also be affected by the limited visibility. He turned back to Jocelyn, already walking amongst the solders, explaining the plan in a hushed whisper. “Sergeant, do your soldiers have a challenge/answer routine?”

She paused in her explanation, turning and nodding. “For identification?” she asked, divining his intent behind the question. “We have a number of phrases and codes. For this kind of situation, the challenge is ‘Crow’ and the answer ‘Dove’.”

“Crow. Dove,” Gregor repeated under his breath, memorising them. Simple words, easy to remember. He nodded at the sergeant. “Alright, advance at will,” he ordered, turning away and beginning to walk towards the village.

The plan worked. The bandits, so confident in their arrogance, had remained fixated on the horsemen camped to the north, the steeds snorting and whinnying. A simple distraction. The young Peer had reached the barricades, slowly crouching lower and lower until he was nearly bent double as he strayed ever closer to the dim light cast by dying flames.

Gregor could hear faint murmurs, somewhere beyond the hastily erected carts and stacked barrels blocking the road. He turned back, beckoning his warriors over. They moved swiftly, their armour shifting with a whisper of metal on metal as they gathered around him. He couldn’t see Jocelyn – she was probably coming last, making sure no one got seperated in the dark. And forming a rallying point if they should pull back no doubt.

An unnecessary precaution. They had made it this far without a single sign of being discovered. Gregor pointed out two of the stockier soldiers with him. “Against the wall. Hoist up the others,” he said, before quickly scanning the rest of the gathering men and women. “You five, first over. Semicircle on the other side, shields close. Everyone else, once you’re over join the shieldwall.” Strange. He had never really expected to end up using siege ladder tactics in a village of all places. Still, a barricade was a fortification of a sort, one they would have to seize since they could hardly smash their way through.

“Aye milord,” the soldiers replied, moving to obey his command. They were professionals, a step above the levy that made up the bulk of the Illin military during wartime, and as such they knew what they were doing.

Gregor looked out at the fields they had crossed, spying some shapes slinking about. The rest of the unit, Jocelyn no doubt amongst them. They could undoubtedly see what he was planning, and would move in to support. No reason to dally then.

The half-orc stepped forwards, towards where the last of the vanguard where being helped over the wall. Still no sounds of battle. Good, they were catching the bandits completely by surprise. He followed the vanguard over, the two men by the barricade cupping their hands together to make a platform for him to step on and gain enough height to completely jump over the hastily erected wall.

On the other side he was confronted with five backs facing him, his vanguard doing as he had instructed and forming a shieldwall against any potential attackers. The bandits would be coming to investigate the noise – there was no way to clear a barricade in chainmail without causing some sort of commotion. Now it was a matter of getting as many soldiers into the village as possible. If he could get ten to form a defensive line blocking the street, then they could set the rest to dismantling the barricade to give the cavalry access.

Gregor peered into the dark, noting the ruined facades of the surrounding buildings. Nothing moved. A spike of worry shot through him. Where was the enemy? Were they even in the village anymore? Surely someone would have come to confront them by now? Or had they slipped away in the dark, confounding not only him but his father as well?

The Peer turned back to the barricade, noting how the soldiers were even now yanking boards and barrels out of the way. A heap of heavy trash had been piled up around an overturned cart, which needed to be dealt with before the road could be cleared. They tried to be quiet but there was no way to work silently. Gregor winced as someone knocked something over, and wood slammed into the dirt road.

Alright, the enemy would have definitively heard that!

“Move out,” Gregor ordered, stepping up and nudging on of the fighters aside. He stepped out of the protective ring of shields, leading the way towards the centre of the village. His eyes surveyed the surrounding ruins and alleys. All was quiet and dark. The fires that had blazed through Harvests End had burned out, leaving only cooling ash behind. In some places he could make out what appeared to be bodies, lying where they had fallen, undoubtedly run through by raider blades.

“Where are they?” muttered a man behind him.

Something was wrong.

A vial soared through the air into their ranks, exploding into light and noise.

Gregor stumbled forwards, almost glancing behind at the flash. Cries of alarm filled the air, accompanied by bloodthirsty roars as the renegades of Brass Keep surged out of the darkness around the Peer and his warriors. Gregor felt his training take over his reactions. There was no time to wonder how the bandits had managed to appear as if from nowhere.

He raised his sword and parried an axe aimed at his shoulder. His opponent snarled and twisted the weapon, seeking to entrap his blade. Gregor stepped forwards, striking the bandit’s hand with the edge of his shield. He felt something crack as the figure before him yelped in pain and released their axe. The Peer continued moving forwards, smashing the figure back with his shield.

He needed to clear some space, give his soldiers room to move and orient themselves. A hulking brute was moving in on the woman who had been to Gregor’s left. The warrior was still cursing as she stood her ground, shield and hammer raised defensively. She was still blinking after images out of her eyes, Gregor realized.

Half turning on the spot, Gregor stabbed across himself into the side of the rushing renegade. The villain caught the glint of metal in the starlight, but only managed to turn their head to see him before the point of the sword was driven into their hip. Blood surged out of the wound. He’d hit the major artery. Good. With another bandit down, Gregor continued to move, breaking out of the ambush.

Dark shapes noticed his progress and stepped into his path. He heard metal crash against metal behind him, but did not dare look back. He was a Peer. He had to look forwards. Always forwards. A scimitar, its sheen marred by soot he observed, swung at his head. The half-orc raised his shield, letting the blow rebound. His sword swung horizontally at the attacker’s midriff, but they had already hopped back out of his reach.

Gregor growled in annoyance, shifting his path to catch them, but another axe came at him from the darkness. Too fast to block. Gregor dropped to his knees, letting the weapon pass overhead before rolling forwards. He was alone now, separated from the breach his soldiers had made in the barricade. Darkness flowed around him, figures fading in and out of sight. He was surrounded, he needed an anchor.

There. A wall. He dove for it, scrambling along the ground until he could press his back to the cool bricks. Now his opponents would be unable to get behind him. Gregor allowed himself a small smile. Things were still going well. Jocelyn would get the rest of the unit into the village, and push up to meet him. His father’s cavalry must have noticed what was happening by now, and would be on their way. Once they got into Harvests End, it would all be over.

They would ride through what passed for streets, horses snorting and banner soaring.

It would be glorious.

Then the wall behind him exploded.

The Peer was sent sprawling into the dirt, head slamming into the ground. The half-orc blinked furiously turning himself onto his back, shield up to defend himself. But the shield wasn’t in his hand anymore. His vision swam as he tried to figure out what had happened. A dull drumbeat echoed in his skull, and a tower materialised above him, looking down.

An…ogre?

No…it had…horns…

Ah, minotaur.

And then Gregor’s consciousness fled.

Cold water was splashed on his face. The chill made him splutter and shake his head, his vision swimming. Gregor blinked a few times, to no avail. Feeling nausea rise up within him, he forced his eyes shut and pictured a set of runes in his mind.

Czek. Ut. Rah. Az. Rah. Eh.

He felt the familiar flow of power spread through his body. Channellers used magical energies innate to their bodies, so they could never truly be left helpless, unlike conjurers. The dull pain faded as Gregor directed the rejuvenating powers of the spell into himself, blinking his eyes clear.

It was still dark. He was on his knees, amongst the ashes of Harvests End. His hands were bound behinds his back, and he was surrounded by dark figures. Gregor’s eyes darted about, taking in as many details as he could. The raiders were all clad in soot-stained leather, the glint of their weapons dulled by ash.

“Alright, add him to the live pile,” growled a female voice from somewhere behind him. One of the bandits stepped up and hauled the young Peer to his feet, before leading him to a bunch of prisoners similarly restrained and devoid of weapons. A group of orcs and humans stood guard, their faces painted black.

“Sit,” he was told, being pushed towards the rest of his soldiers. He could recognize Jocelyn now that he was closer. The woman was pale and cradling her right arm, which ended just about where the wrist should have been. Gregor silently complied, sitting down next to the sergeant with a nod of greeting. She nodded back, even as Gregor reached out and took the ruined stump of her wrist and let his magic flow into it. It had been a clean cut, and swiftly cauterised too – Jocelyn must’ve been one of the last ones to be captured. The fact she was even alive was promising.

The woman’s haggard breathing steadied as the infection beginning to take hold of the wound was banished. She managed a stiff nod of thanks before leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes. She had probably figured out the same thing Gregor had. That they were hostages, not prisoners. The raiders were probably going to barter safe passage back to Fean in exchange for their safety.

The Peer scowled, even as the surrounding bandits set to wiping soot and ash off themselves. There was a surprising variety of beings present in this party – Gregor had expected orcs and goblins, which to this day made up the bulk of the Brass Keep forces, yet he could see a fair few elves, humans and even satyrs. The young half-orc let his eyes wander, following the general movements surrounding him and his soldiers. The raiders were getting ready to move, pulling out loaded wagons from where they had been hidden in ruined buildings, and organising themselves into a marching column.

He had blundered straight into a trap. Stupid. The Brass Keep Renegades had been expecting a relief force, and had buried themselves in the ashes of Harvests End. Then Gregor and his troops just walked in, convinced they were being stealthy, and wound up being ambushed. The half-orc took a breath to calm his temper. No use in reprimanding himself for now.

“Alright, on your feet,” growled the closest guard, banging his sword on his shield to get their attention. “No heroics. Keep quiet, keep in line, and you’ll be back with your fellows, simple as that,” the man said, a few other raiders forming up alongside the guards to form a perimeter around the prisoners. “Try to run or cause mischief, and we’ll leave you for the crows.”

There was a momentary pause before Gregor stood up, offering the guards a stiff nod. The rest of the prisoners – his responsibility – swiftly followed. Not a single one made a sound. The guard who had spoken let his gaze sweep across the group before returning to Gregor. The man grinned slightly. “Well then, shall we?”

On this night, more than any other, Gregor wished the ground would just swallow him up. He could feel the flush on his face from the humiliation, his father looking down impassively from his horse at the group.

The bandit in charge of the prisoners, a human with blond hair tied into a ponytail, had just finished outlining the Renegades’ terms for the release of the prisoners. They had included exactly what Gregor thought they would – safe passage to Feanese territory. And although Earl Anders Redsword was no longer a Peer, he still maintained the standards he had been taught.

The elder orc nodded once, agreeing to the deal. The blond bandit had the good sense not to gloat, merely bowing his head back, as if this had all been a simple trade rather than a hostage situation. The captured soldiers were released as the Brass Keep Renegades moved out, abandoning the wreckage of Harvests End. The minotaur Gregor had spied before being captured led the column north, towards the wild plains of Fean, her troops obviously in good spirits at managing to secure themselves a safe way out.

They would return to plague Redsword lands yet, Gregor knew. And it was his entire fault. His father sat on his horse, impassively watching the bandits escape justice. His soldiers had mostly dismounted, letting their horses rest whilst they tended to the injured released into their care.

Gregor felt like he should say something, anything, to explain his failure. But no words came. How could he explain something like this? It was his fault a cohort of thieves and murderers managed to elude paying for their crimes. The young half-orc let his eyes fall, staring at the ground. It was a minor miracle his Saint had not seen it fit to strip him of his blessing after such a failure.

“Gregor,” his father said softly, startling the young Peer from his thoughts. “I trust you see where your error was?” the Earl asked without looking down.

The Peer nodded as he replied. “Yes.” He had been blinded by glory and underestimated his opponents. A basic mistake, one he had believed beneath him. Which ended up being the reason he had made it in the first place. Pride was dangerously insidious. It was a strength, yes, but without tempering it led to recklessness.

There was a moment of silence before Anders Redsword nodded. “Learn from this, and make sure it does not happen again,” Gregor’s father said. “Now ready your men. We head home.”

“Yes sir,” Gregor replied, bowing his head.

His father said nothing more, but then again he did not need to.