"Because
this," the vampire slayer said, gesturing to the display of utter carnage surrounding them with a flicking nod of the head, "this is only the beginning."
"There's more of this coming. Let me live, and I'll help prepare you lot prepare for what's coming. Every iota of preparedness you can buy is lives saved. Lives of your countrymen, lives of your
sons. But if you're too proud to let me go, if some misplaced sense of justice or pride is worth the lives of your people and family, then go ahead and stick that sword in my throat."
Nobody traveling along the West Weald Road paid much mind to the hobbling beggar slowly ambling westward toward the border of Solleckshire. With an outstretched palm and an unintelligible murmuring plea, the vagabond greeted all those who crossed his path. Wagons and passersby responded to the destitute cripple with either derision or the charity of a tin penny or two, and then promptly forgot him entirely. Even a highwayman that had happened upon this pathetic drifter paid little attention to him; disinterestedly accepting a handful of tin coins before allowing the hobbling wretch to pass without so much as a second thought. Little did any of them know that the filthy vagabond limping westward was a wanted fugitive and former chamberlain of the court of Ulrek Bathory.
The former chamberlain had nearly reached the Imperial Heartlands when he overheard in some roadside hamlet that border patrols had intensified along the southern borders of the realm. While his disguise was effective at allowing the chamberlain to hide and travel in plain sight, he knew that he would be found out if subjected to more rigorous investigation by a border patrol. The chamberlain therefore took a detour to the west, traveling to the less heavily-policed border between the Great Weald and Solleckshire. From the realm of Solleck, the chamberlain would be free from Ulrek's clutches and he could travel quickly to the Imperial Capital. Now he was less than a day's walk from Trout Run, the river that marked the border between the Weald and Solleck. Under the cover of night, the chamberlain would attempt to cross the shallow river and free himself of Ulrek Bathory forever.
The former chamberlain came upon a small town situated upon the road - Lachenheath - the chamberlain recalled. This would be the last settlement on his journey before leaving Ulrek's dominion. This would be a fine opportunity purchase some fresh shoes from the town's shoemaker to replace the old holey slippers that would be ruined after crossing the river that night.
Just before the open moor transitioned to garden plots and wattle-and-daub huts of the town peasantry, a lonely moor tree caught the attention of the chamberlain. A wind-stunted and gnarled hawthorn tree, scarcely fifteen feet high, marked the entrance of the town. From one of the tree's few thick branches, a man hung limply by a short noose. The toes of his boots hung mere inches above the grass, and on a wooden placard hanging around his identified the criminal to all those who made their way into the town. '
I WAS A HIGHWAYMAN' was scrawled crudely in black paint upon the sign. The chamberlain immediately recognized his pale and bloated face as the same brigand who had dispassionately stolen a pittance of 23 pence from him two days earlier. His stomach dropped, not because of any love lost for the hanged man, but because it signified that Ulrek's men had been here not long ago. The chamberlain resolved to buy his shoes and leave this place at once.
Lachenheath was bustling today, more so than any small country town should be on a normal day, for a small crowd had gathered in the town's plaza. The chamberlain attempted to skirt around the edge of the gathered throng, trying as best he could to avoid so many scrutinizing eyes. His attempts at bypassing the crowd were unsuccessful, and he was summoned by an authoritative bark.
"Oi! You there! Ovah 'ere for inspection!" A voice commanded from over the crowd. The townsfolk parted slightly, all turning to face the disguised chamberlain. With so much attention on him, the chamberlain trembled. Partly to play the role of a feeble vagabond, but also out of a genuine fear. As commanded, he hobbled over to the town's central plaza. Two horsemen sat in their saddles beside a covered wagon, dressed in plate and mail. Knights, surrounded by a gaggle of unhorsed armored sergeants dressed in chainmail cuirasses. Ulrek's men were indeed in this town, and in greater number than the chamberlain could have ever anticipated. His trembling intensified.
"C'mere you,
yes you!" An armored sergeant ordered. The chamberlain shuffled over toward Ulrek's men and presented himself.
"I ain't eat for two days, suh," the chamberlain croaked, mimicking the actual vagabond he had purchased this disguise a week earlier. "Spare two pence for some bread?"
The chamberlain could feel the eyes of the knights and men at arms studying him carefully. Their eyes ran across his filthy robe and hood, his trembling, outstretched palms, and the muddy, hole-pocked slippers that hung limply to his calloused feet.
"Not this one," one of the knights decided after what felt like an hour. "He is of no use to us."
"Roight," the man-at-arms agreed. "This'n's loiable to die on the march."
"Go on, git goin'!" Another sergeant barked, shooing the chamberlain away from them. He happily obliged, melting into the crowd pressing in around the the town plaza. But once within the safety of the crowd, the chamberlain was stopped by his own curiosity. He looked back and got another glimpse at the men gathered within the plaza. Some thirty men, all clad in dirty serf's attire, standing in loose formation before Ulrek's men and the wagon.
"That's 27, sire," the chamberlain heard one of the sergeants say.
"About as many as we can expect to muster from such a place. It will have to suffice."
"Men of Lachenheath!" The mounted knight addressed, tugging his stirrups and galvanizing his steed into a loping pace around the conscripts. "Your liege, Baron Ulrek Bathory, has seen fit to call forth all able-bodied men of the realm to provide for the protection of these lands. No such call to arms has been made in any of our lifetimes, nor the lifetimes of our fathers. Your liege desires peace and industry and detests war, as evidenced by the extreme peculiarity of this call to arms. As such, you can be assured of the absolute necessity of your commitment to the defense of these lands, your parents, your women, and your children. But with this comes a rare opportunity. The spoils of war will be tremendous. Serve your liege honorably on the battlefield, and the spoils of the Baron's enemies will be yours to do with as you please. You lot have the opportunity to become wealthy men indeed."
The armored sergeants reached into the wagon and brought out armfuls of mismatching helmets and bundles of spears. Each of the assembled conscripts was handed some sort of kettle hat and a spear. In the light of the cloud-filtered sun, their spearpoints glimmered with a mirrorlike sheen impossible to achieve with iron or steel. It was then that the chamberlain realized that the speartips were made of silver. The chamberlain realized now why Ulrek had allowed the Felmurg Dwarves to keep so much mithril in exchange for silver. The Baron was amassing an army wielding silver weapons. Ulrek meant to wage war against his own family.
The chamberlain practically ran from the crowd. As he went through the alleys and paths between houses and huts, he witnessed the womenfolk harvesting crops from their garden plots. They yanked thick green shoots from the rocky soil, revealing dirt-caked bulbs of white garlic. They were small, anemic bulbs, harvested hastily before reaching maturity. Even so, their harvests were substantial. Each plot had a small pile of the bulbs or a sizeable allotment of unpicked shoots. No doubt this was commanded by Ulrek as well, but for what purpose? What could Ulrek intend to do with so much garlic?
The chamberlain went due west from the town, out onto the open moor. There was no time to waste following marked roads. He had to take the most direct route west to Solleck, and from there to the Imperial Capital to warn King Zachaeus of Ulrek's intent. The chamberlain scaled a rocky ridge to the west of town, for the urgency of his journey was now so great that there was no longer time to walk around such obstacles.
((Suggested listening))On a rocky, windswept promontory upon the ridge, the chamberlain was afforded a commanding view of the western fringe of the Great Weald. Perhaps a half-league to the west, Trout Run babbled southward toward the fertile Imperial Heartlands. The border was in sight at last. After a brief rest from his climb up the ridge, the chamberlain assured himself, he would make haste to cross the river.
Over the whistling wind blowing off the moor, the chamberlain heard a peculiar sound. Drums. A steady, rhythmic beat sounded over the land. Off in the distance, on the West Weald Road winding off to the north, he saw where the drumbeat was coming from.
Marching down the road was a contingent of men carrying gleaming, silvery spearpoints high above their heads. Perhaps a thousand of them in this particular formation. A small army, flanked by dozens of horse-mounted knights and men at arms carrying lances and spears festooned with long silver banner fluttering in the wind. Silver gray silk and the black bat sigil of the Baron. Even now, Ulrek's forces were on the march. And this particular army appeared to making its way to the border of Solleckshire.
The chamberlain stood up immediately and ran down the opposite side of the ridge, down across the moor toward the river. There was no time for rest rest now, for it was clear that so long as Ulrek lived, nowhere in the Imperium was safe.