Bleufontaine was the citadel of the southeastern province of the Isovine Empire. Since its construction some five hundred winters ago, it had been heavily contested by Isovine and Ruvia. In every war between the two empires, one thing was certain, the bulk of the fighting would be centred around the castle, for whoever controlled Bleufontaine, controlled several thousand acres of land around it.
It had withstood several bombardments and endured several sieges, yet had it always stood tall watching over the flat plains between the Isovine and Ruvia border, eager to be a staging point for any army that stationed itself within it.
Walking on the road alongside the rushing Fléur river, Sir Peyton Whitehill knew that he and his rag-tag crew of loyal soldiers had been spotted several miles from Bleufontaine with the supplies gathered from the ambush a few moons ago.
The pain in his tired legs seemed to fade as he watched the huge red-tinted walls of the fearsome fortress appear over the horizon. As the menacing central keep reached up to the sky, surrounded by its eight daunting turrets, Peyton remembered the feeling of anxiety he first felt when entering its octagonal walls. He recalled the stories that his peers had bombarded him with, about the death and destruction that came within its blood-tinted stone. Words that were normally exaggerated by those who had heard tales of the true events, yet those same words were all authentic. Several tormented souls roamed anxiously within the walls, snatched away from the living through unspeakable means, doomed to an eternity of restlessness.
Even now, after needing to mature well beyond his years, Peyton feared this castle and the spirits within it. When he was offered the chance to have a room within the keep, fit for his stature, he respectfully declined. Instead, he was happy to sleep with the men that he respected and protected in equal measure.
Reaching the top of the nearest hill and preparing for the long trek toward the castle, he watched as the thousands of tents littered themselves around the dark citadel. Over thirty thousand men had stationed themselves here. The second Isovine army preparing, initially, for the next stage of the war. Now they were preparing for the rigorous and tortuous cold and winds of the approaching winter.
A roar bellowed its way up the hill toward the caravan led by the tired Sir Peyton. A cheer of gratitude for the much-needed supplies for the winter. A wave of satisfaction filled his heart as he continued to escort the convoy towards the thousands of eagerly awaiting men. He had seen his men successfully strengthen their position at Bleufontaine while drastically weakening the enemy over the coming winter.
However, it was not without loss. He could feel the cart further down the caravan with the bodies of the few that fell within the ambush, and the ones that subsequently died from their wounds on the return to the castle. In a few hours, they would dine with their fallen brothers in the afterlife, and be laid to rest on a pyre for Peyton's men to celebrate their life and their death.
Ever since he had become Sir Vermund of Oakfort's page at six winters, he had seen plenty of men die, but it had never prepared him for losing men under his command. Hours of chastising himself on how he could have commanded them better to avoid their deaths did not help his conscience. Even when confiding with Jeffords, a man who was greatly feared by all until coming under Sir Peyton's charge, he realised that his men would follow him to hell and back if he commanded them to.
He watched as Jeffords escorted the Ruvian Chevalier alongside the front of the convoy. The Chevalier had been stripped of his weaponry and armour but still escorted with the dignity that his station deserved. Peyton knew he would be reprimanded for his actions, but with all the violence and death that surrounded them every day, he was determined that the chivalric code demanded by the gods would remain paramount for his dignity and his men's actions.
With each step forward, his body ached after the intense ambush and the days of travel. His back burned incessantly from the bruising it had endured, but all the pain subsided as the greeting party slowly exited between the rows of tents.
A glance at the Ruvian chevalier reminded him of what was to come, he had endured the battle of his body, and now it was the battle of the wits that was to come. A battle that would be as taxing as the ambush a few moons ago.
Easing his pace, he ensured that he walked side by side with Jeffords, the Chevalier just a few steps in front.
"I assume he still has not spoken?" Peyton asked his eyes firmly on the Chevalier.
"No milord, he's as tight-lipped as an elf's legs," Jeffords responded, his face scrunched up in a continuous frown.
Sir Peyton felt compelled to pull Jeffords up on his use of language but realised it would serve no purpose. This was how the men under his command spoke. Their crude behaviour was sometimes uncomfortable, but rebuking them for every ungentlemanly conduct they would undoubtedly perform would only encourage the huge gap between him, a noble, and them, the refuse of life, to separate even further.
"That is unfortunate," Peyton replied as his eyes now focused on the retinue aiming to relieve them. "You stay with him, along with a couple of the other men. Don't stop for anyone until you reach my tent, and ensure he's secured when you get there."
"Aye milord, expecting trouble?"
Peyton's childish smile flashed towards Jeffords, "You know me, hope for the best..."
"But except the worst, aye milord," Jeffords interjected.
The closer to the unfriendly walls of Bleufontaine the caravan progressed, the more anxious Sir Peyton felt and as the banners of the men sent to relieve them flew high, it only compounded his anxiety.
The first, a black flag flowing gallantly in the wind with a golden deer proudly standing in the centre, spelt some small amount of comfort. Sir Emhyr Renfry, Earl of Caernleigh, was an extremely stern but proud man who had significant influence within the forces of Ravenscourt. Peyton had tremendous respect for him, a man who had fought in countless battles and was greatly feared by the enemy.
The other flag waved high with a black tree waving frantically on a green background. It was a flag that Peyton had grown sick of seeing. It spelt trouble, and he was certain it would spell more this day.
"Sir Peyton Whitehill, I see you continue to excel in the realms of incompetence." the knight walking toward Peyton commented rudely. There was no smile, and his words were harsh and oozed bitterness.
The knight's bitterness was apparent on his face as his eyes, the colour of cedar, looked on with no love. His tuft of hair growing on his chin appeared at odds with his hairless lip and his curly, but governed hair, made his features appear childish, despite seeing twice the number of winters as Peyton. As childish as he looked, Peyton always wished he would never have to look upon him.
"The men under my charge do not suffer from incompetence, Sir Cedwyn." Sir Emhyr commented, quickly jumping to Peyton's aid. Unlike his compatriot, his face looked as if it was carved from stone. A frown forever etched into his face seemed irrelevant compared to the cold piercing stare of his ice-coloured eyes. The scar that ran deep along his right cheek above his mangled ear seemed to harden his brutal and harsh demeanour.
"Yet these supplies were supposed to arrive days ago, someone appears to have forgotten that there is a war on!" Sir Cedwyn Daundelyon, Count of Oakfort responded, his words as hollow as the gaze that appeared to stare through Peyton as if he were not there.
Peyton knew his place. He was the son of a hedge knight but he had earnt his renown through incredible feats of courage and intelligence. Despite this, though, Peyton's renown meant very little to Count Oakfort who would use his position to rain distress on the young knight at every opportunity.
"The Ruvian convoy was far later than expected my Lord. My men are tired and cold from restless days in the ambush position." Sir Peyton replied.
"I would hardly call them men!" Sir Cedwyn spat, staring at the rag-tag group of rogues that trudged past, all looking away from the nobles, as per Peyton's instructions. Turning back to Sir Peyton he continued, "Perhaps you should have ambushed them somewhere else?"
Peyton knew this line of questioning was fruitless, yet out of respect, he felt it necessary to respond. "Apologies, my lord, but it was the most efficient spot for us to ambush, as their forces were far superior in number to mine. If we had positioned ourselves differently, I would have lost most of my men."
"I care not for your men," Sir Cedwyn responded callously, "just for the supplies we should have received days ago."
"Yet the supplies are here and so are Sir Peyton's men," Sir Emhyr interjected, his face stern like stone.
Cedwyn developed a deep frown as Emhyr commented on Peyton's behalf, his fuming face turned to thunder as he swung around towards his counterpart, but as his eyes glided towards him, they ended up focusing on something entirely different.
Peyton's frustration spilt onto his face as he knew what was to come. As Cedwyn's focus descended onto Jeffords, it was obvious that only one thing was on his mind, the man shackled next to him.
"You man, come here!" Sir Cedwyn called abruptly towards Jeffords.
Instantly, Jeffords looked toward Sir Peyton, awaiting his lord's approval to approach the Count of Oakfort.
Peyton gave a quick nod, encouraging Jeffords to approach and as the two quietly communicated it seemed to anger the Count even more.
"Do you know who I am?" Sir Cedwyn reacted angrily towards Jeffords.
"Yes milord," he replied, his strong common accent displaying a certain disdain for the man determined to display his authority.
"Then you are aware that Sir Peyton is under my charge, and with that, you are?"
"Aye milord," replied Jeffords.
"Then see it that you adhere to my commands the instant I give them, not when this boy feels it prudent." Sir Cedwyn rebuked.
Peyton sighed as he knew Jeffords would not react in the way the Count would like, instead, he would likely antagonise him further. He was a man who hated authority and all those who received it through the luck of the gods by being born into a house with a name. Jeffords would very likely react condescendingly.
"Aye milord, I shall give respect and servitude where it's due." Jeffords smiled a hint of malice in his voice.
There was a brief silence between them, encouraging Cedwyn's frown to grow deeper still. "I should have you flogged for insubordination man!"
"My Lord, this man is a diligent servant of the Isovine Empire, as are the men under his command. I request that you see the words that he speaks for what they truly mean." Peyton quickly commented, hoping to divert the wrath of the Count away from Jeffords toward him.
"This man speaks true," Sir Emhyr responded, causing the other knights to focus on him. His normally stoic and stern face cracked into a small smile, "Our men fight with greater fervour when they have those they wish to fight for. Perhaps we can learn more from him through study rather than flogging."
Once again, Peyton was relieved by Emhyr's intervention, even if it would be short-lived.
"So be it, but man, tell me why you have a Ruvian Chevalier bound to you? Perhaps I could flog him for this insubordination instead?" Sir Cedwyn responded.
"My Lord, Jeffords escorts the Chevalier on my command," Peyton interjected once more, eager to take the responsibility away from his Sergeant.
Cedwyn's eyes turned dark, "You admit to disobeying a direct order?"
He knew his own words were trapping him in a web of intrigue, but as he looked toward the man who looked dejected by the side of Jeffords, Peyton refused to back down from his commitment. "I believe that he may contain intelligence relevant to Ruvian forces and supply routes, both, I believe, will be beneficial for our forces in the area." a complete lie, but one that he even convinced himself into believing.
"Has he spoken?" Emhyr asked.
"No, my Lord."
"Perhaps put him in my charge, and I'll make him talk."
Peyton respected the Earl of Caernleigh immensely, except when it came to matters of Prisoners of War. Emhyr was brutal in his torturous methods and barbaric in nature, and it appeared the Chevalier prisoner had heard of his infamous ways. The Ruvian soldier, who had remained stalwart in his defiance, now looked white with fear.
"I request that he remain under my charge, my Lord. While I do not deny your efficiency in obtaining information, I request that I interrogate him first before passing him to you."
The Chevalier's head seemed to flick toward Peyton ever so slightly, a small smile appeared as his defence was raised.
Emhyr frowned slightly, "Fine, but I expect results."
Peyton had dodged one arrow, but he was very much not out of the woods on the whole discussion. He had to gain some valuable intelligence, or the Chevalier's last few moons on the earth would be horrendous and barbaric.
"This still doesn't excuse the fact that he still breaths," Cedwyn retorted, "against my express wishes! I gave strict instructions to kill all survivors, are you incapable of following simple instructions?"
Peyton remained exhausted from the trek to Bleufontaine, and now the conversation was grating him. "My Lord, while I respect your station, killing a noble in cold blood is neither chivalric nor ethical. The reason the code of chivalry exists is so that we nobles do not lower ourselves to the common folk, or worst still, animals. Your orders may appear just, but I could not, in good conscience, order his execution."
Cedwyn fumed at the response, "Damn your conscience man, we have no need for weak-minded individuals such as yourself on the battlefield."
Emhyr's arm separated the two squared-up knights, "Perhaps Sir Peyton is what we need. A man that reminds us of the humanity that is in war? While I disagree with his decision to take matters into his own hands, his reasoning is just." his cold stare then turned towards Sir Peyton, devoid of emotion, "yet, I expect actionable intelligence, or he will wish that you executed him."
A grunt exhaled from the Count of Oakfort. As his eyes glared at Emhyr, Cedwyn knew arguing with him would be fruitless. Once Emhyr had made his mind on something so trivial, it was set, and despite outranking him, Emhyr's influence over the Ravenscourt forces, which were at least two-thirds of the second army, was substantial.
"So be it," Cedwyn eventually responded before turning towards Peyton, "yet he will not be provided with supplies, you must distribute your rations with him."
Out of respect, Peyton placed his fist over his heart and nodded. As the two knights turned abruptly, both frowning as they departed, Peyton turned towards Jeffords who had quietly taken a few steps back from the debacle.
"Escort the Chevalier to my tent and ensure he's fed and watered. Keep him secure and have two men watching him at all times." Sir Peyton ordered.
"Aye," Jeffords responded, "and you milord, are you ok?"
A small fake smile gleamed on Peyton's face, "Thank you for your concern, Jeffords, but I am well," he lied. "See that the supplies are handed over and ensure the men get their much-needed rest."
Watching Jeffords depart alongside the caravan with the Chevalier had left Peyton alone with his thoughts. His eyes never lost focus on the shackled Chevalier beside Jeffords, his mind, focused on the foolishness to let the Ruvian man live. Sir Cedwyn's animosity toward Peyton had been something he had grown used to, but Sir Emhyr was someone that he respected and feared in equal measure. As a leader, he was exceptional, commanding thousands of troops with ease, but as a man, his lack of morality was infamous. His renowned father, Knight Inquisitor Ithelred Renfry, was known to be brutal towards his prisoners. Emhyr was worse.
Yet, these concerns were minimal in comparison to the letter he had received from Duke Ethelston Darke a few moons ago. Word would spread to the camp of the attack on Ravenscourt. When that happened, the two men that stood beside each other would likely be at each other's throats. Peyton did not like the Count of Oakfort, but no one deserved to endure the levels of barbarity that the Earl of Caernleigh could potentially muster.
He talked of chivalry now, but when Sir Emhyr's bloodlust was awoken, all thoughts of gallantry, or humanity, would be forgotten.