The Coward King: Part One - Rebellion

Rebellion: Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

The sun had just risen over the horizon when the deep boom of horns woke the city of Werach from its tense, uneasy slumber. Dorad smiled as he looked around him to see the sunlight glinting off the armor of thousands of men milling about their warcamp. His men. They had been up for hours, and were getting around to their daily business. It was not an enormous host, with only nine thousand men, but it would be more than enough to overtake the thin garrison left in Elaech's capital.

When he had called the men of the Stony River to arms, he had had no idea of the kind of force he would receive. All the men loyal to their lord had rallied to his banner in Enival. From knights in heavy plate armor to common soldiers in boiled leather to peasants carrying pitchforks, they had rallied to his cause.

Dorad himself was clad in his finest armor, an ornate steel suit covered by a surcoat with his house sigil, a thick oaken shield bearing his charging boar, and his jewelled bastard sword slung across his back. Looking out across the open field at the city filled him with sudden pride. He was going to overthrow a monarchy!

There was a muffled shout from the walls of the city, and then the air was filled with the ear-piercing creak of the gates, as they slowly swung open. From them spilled a small procession of horses, covering the distance between the camp and the city swiftly. The man in the front rode a massive white charger, his arm outstretched and holding up a tall banner depicting the King’s own sigil.

“It would seem that the King would like to talk with us,” Dorad said, to no one in particular.

Sir Byned, standing near him and putting on his own armor, looked confused. “You must be right, my lord,” he said, “but if all they want is to talk, then why hold aloft the King’s banner and not the white banner for diplomacy?”

“Because Allard is a self-centred bastard, most like,” Sir Rhiliar said, chuckling. Rhiliar stood tall and heavily muscled, with long black hair that fell to his shoulders and a coarse beard outlining his mouth. He was somewhere in his middle thirties, Dorad guessed, fond of drinking and of girls much younger than himself. The wrinkles around his mouth suggested that he smiled often, which he was doing right now. Dorad had always liked the man for that.

Sir Errin, however, was the opposite, in more was than just one. His face was stern and serious, his voice the same. The hair that he kept closely cropped on his head was a pale blonde with flecks of grey all through it, and he was always clean-shaven. Not often had Dorad heard him laugh, and even now he did not find Rhiliar’s joke at all funny. “He is your king, sir,” he said. “You should not mock him so.”

“You do realize what we’re doing here in Werach, right Errin?” Sir Fallan asked, reclining deep into a chair next to the exit from the tent. He had not done much in the way of exercise or training since his leg had been crushed beneath the weight of his horse, and although he claimed it was healing Dorad seldom saw him when he was not sitting down. Sir Fallan ran a hand through his mop of shaggy brown curls and sighed. “We’re traitors and rebels, fighting against our rightful king,” he said. He was nearest to Dorad’s own age, of all his knights, and they had been fast friends growing up. After his injury, though, he had turned melancholy, and Dorad found that he did not speak all too much.

“Rebels or not,” Dorad said, looking at the group that were almost at the line of sharpened stakes that surrounded his warcamp, “we had best prepare to meet with them. We all know that Allard stands no chance against us. He’s probably come to offer terms to try to save his own skin.”  He looked at his four knights, each one different from the last. “I will meet with them in my own tent, and I want all of you with me. I will not have any of this arguing in the king’s presence, however. He may be a craven loon, but Sir Errin is right. He’s still our king.” That made them quiet.