The red, almost bloodstained-looking stone of the halls of Bleufontaine felt unsettling as Peyton stepped through its low-lit halls. The only sound was his steps and his sword slapping against his metallic cuisse. He was not fully dressed in his armour, but while walking around the camp, he had always made it a habit to cover his legs and shoulders while ensuring his golden tunic flowed around him, the Whitehill sigil proudly displayed upon it.
While away from his tent, he had to be prepared to enter battle at any moment, even though it would be suicide for any Ruvian to attack Bleufontaine while the second army was stationed there. With the winter here, and the snows ready to fall at any moment, no attack was likely to come. Yet, for Peyton, it did not matter, only a fool was not prepared, and only a fool dies in war without a weapon by his side.
He hated walking through Bleufontaine, the walls felt like they had eyes, the spirits of the long dead staring deep into his soul, all deciding if he was indeed worthy to enter his presence.
A painting was hung up on the wall, the late Duchess Issobella de Pomfret, a woman of such beauty that it was said that several wars were fought in Ruvia just so the victor could walk with her in the now devastated gardens of Bleufontaine.
Peyton stopped, staring at her famed beauty. Paintings had always fallen short of the beauty a woman possessed, in his mind, yet this almost life-sized portrait of the woman sat elegantly, a dress of blue draped over her, covering her legs as if water was flowing over them, a small white proud looking dog sat on her lap, he couldn't help feel his heart beat a little faster while watching her.
Her beauty was striking, her bright blue almost piercing eyes, ripping directly into Peyton's soul as if she was questioning his every move. Peyton felt exposed, weak at her gaze as if he was not worthy to enter her presence, yet at the same time, he was drawn to her, a desire to touch her, to hold her and to speak with her seemed to unnaturally take a hold of him. How could he desire someone so much who had long since died through a painting that eerily stood proud on a wall that no longer had the pride and life that it once had?
Many winters ago, Isovine had taken Bleufontaine from Ruvia with the blood of many thousands, as a result, all trinkets associated with the empire of the east had been burnt, scrapped or melted, yet despite the carnage, this picture remained. Even in death, Duchess Issobella could manipulate men to do her will.
Peyton took a step forward, raising his hand to touch the garment, yet his hand seemed to freeze, unable to stroke what he so desired. He almost felt unworthy to be in her presence, a pain unnaturally seeping its way into his fingers as it drew closer.
He stopped, lowering his hand once more, the pain dissipated, but his desire remained. Was this painting from another realm?
"Impossible to touch, isn't it?" a voice from down the corridor spoke.
The deep voice cut through Peyton's thoughts like glass. As he looked up toward the end of the corridor, he could see the stern features of Sir Emhyr forcing his way up to him.
Peyton immediately saluted, raising his hand to his chest and lowering his head, "My lord."
Before he knew it, Sir Emhyr had already stood beside him, ignoring his salute and staring directly at the painting with the same lust that Peyton had once shown.
"Several times I have attempted to touch the fabric, yet every time, my fingers develop an unnatural ache, one which I can not overcome." Sir Emhyr explained.
Peyton remained tight-lipped, eager to confer his thoughts with the Earl of Caernleigh, but conscious not to speak with him unless instructed to do so.
"Her beauty is of supernatural origin, even her long raven hair appears to change colour in a certain light." Emhyr continued, lowering and flexing his fingers as he did so.
Emhyr's head snapped toward Peyton, a small smile seemed to form on his face. "I like you, Whitehill. Some men would feel it necessary to converse on irrelevant matters such as this painting, yet you remain silent, eager to speak but disciplined to not do so."
"Thank you, my Lord," Peyton responded, desperately attempting not to smile at the compliment.
"So let us talk, as men, on such a trivial thing as this painting," Emhyr responded, his head snapping back toward it, "tell me your thoughts on it."
Peyton looked up at it once again, his eyes drifting toward her long-flowing raven hair. "I find myself drawn to her, yet subsequently pushed away, as if she wants me close, but yet not too close."
Emhyr nodded, "Indeed, an accurate description. Several times I have had thoughts of burning this painting, removing the last piece of Ruvia from this place, yet every time I do, my heart then burns with sorrow, as if I was to throw a piece of myself into that fire."
The thought of burning the picture brought a deep longing to sustain it into Peyton's bones, "As you speak, my heart is saddened, I understand your desire to destroy it, yet I also desire it not to come to pass. This painting is unnatural."
"You say it as if you have encountered such things?" Emhyr's focus had once again returned to Peyton.
"Never a painting of this kind, but I have encountered things that can not be explained on my travels," Peyton responded.
"Come, walk with me," Emhyr commented as he tore himself away from the picture, "how is it that you fight and command as someone twice your age?"
Peyton took one last glance at the photo, the eyes of the picture continuously focusing on the two men as they took steps toward the end of the corridor.
"I had the privilege to squire for the famed Manticore Hunter."
"The mercenary?" Emhyr responded, a hint of disdain in his voice at the sound of the profession.
"Yes, my Lord. His mastery of the sword was rarely matched, but his ability to lead and inspire was something truly legendary. He could take even the simplest of peasants and give them the tools and belief to turn them into a considerable fighting force."
"You admire him, even one of his profession?" Emhyr asked.
Peyton smiled, "That I do, my Lord. He trained me, but he also protected me. While I did not always agree with his methods, his heart was true, he sometimes forsook reputation to protect those who needed it most."
"A mercenary who forsook reputation, and potentially coin, hah!" scoffed Emhyr, "such a thing does not exist."
"Yet it was his actions that saved several lives at the siege of Fort Hagen."
Emhyr stopped in his tracks, causing Peyton to stop immediately, a couple of paces behind him. As Emhyr looked around toward the smaller ginger knight, Peyton could feel the discussion could quickly turn sour by discussing a drive that many wanted to forget.
"Count Cedwyn dislikes you, his hatred for you runs deep. Why is that so?" Emhyr asked abruptly.
Peyton could feel a lump in his throat as discussions of his past could potentially dictate his future. "Before I was a squire for the Manticore Hunter, I squired for Lord Cedwyn's father, the late Count Vermund. I believe there is sufficient animosity toward me because of his father's death."
"Who killed him?"
"The Manticore Hunter, my Lord, yet it was out of mercy, something I do not believe Lord Cedwyn sees reason," explained Peyton.
"And why would this famed mercenary need to show mercy to Sir Vermund?"
Peyton sighed, "Both the Manticore Hunter and Sir Vermund set off together with a large retinue of soldiers and other mercenaries. They travelled for several moons to reach the Sea of Sorrows, all hell-bent on slaying a Manticore and the renown that would undoubtedly accompany it. The Manticore Hunter received his moniker that day, Sir Cedwyn lost his father."
"Yet other mercenaries accompanied them, why did the Manticore Hunter claim all the glory?"
"Because he led, he inspired, he organised. The beast was ferocious and deadly, before we had even realised what happened, the Manticore had swooped down, killed half of our force, and incapacitated Sir Vermund, with Sir Searmundr fleeing with haste. It was the Manticore Hunter that united what was left, organised our forces and struck the killing blow to the beast. He received the renown because everyone knew it was his actions that helped us survive that day," explained Peyton. His radiant smile beamed as he recalled the adventure.
"Sir Searmundr, as in the Lionguard?"
Peyton nodded, his smile quickly disappearing as the name of the Lionguard was mentioned once more. "He was a coward that day," he reacted, forgetting briefly who he was talking to.
"Be careful, Sir Peyton, words spoken like that of the famed Lionguard can be almost considered treasonous."
"I apologise, my Lord, I forget my place." Peyton saluted quickly, eager to restore his good graces.
"And Sir Vermund, what of him?" Emhyr asked.
"Struck by the scorpion tail of the Manticore. Its venom was tearing him apart. Out of mercy, the Manticore Hunter ended him there after agreeing to take me on as his squire. I then travelled with him for several winters, before I came of age to support my father's estate."
"An interesting tale," Emhyr responded, "one very different from what Sir Cedwyn had been made to believe by his friend Sir Searmundr."
Peyton wanted to curse loudly, his blood boiled at the sound of the Lionguard's name, whose title was the only reason that he was in the position that he was.
"It matters not," Emhyr reacted, "I have heard many truths and I have heard many lies. When tearing the skin from a man's bone, or pulling the teeth and nails from his living body, the real man is then revealed, not the one that they want people to see. Your interrogation of you prisoner has produced some strange results."
Now Peyton knew why he had been summoned to the castle today.
"The intelligence you have gathered from this Ruvian, so far, has been positive, yet it is all insignificant in the scale of this war. Your latest reports from him, the foraging sites, our cartographer confirms that they would indeed provide substantial food, even in this late stage of the year. What do you think of this?"
Peyton knew the next words that would leave his mouth could put into question everything that he had achieved, yet the truth was far more important to him than covering himself in glory.
"I believe that it is also ripe for ambushes. While I have gained a good rapport with the Chevalier Des Serres, he is still the enemy and could be providing misinformation."
"You question your own intelligence?" Emhyr asked abruptly.
"I question everything that has not been verified."
A small smile appeared once again on Emhyr's stern face. "A sensible and legitimate answer. You and your men have been tasked with verifying these sites. Both Cedwyn and I believe that if these foraging sites are of worth, then it is deemed necessary to exploit them. The army, with rationing, has enough food to survive the winter, if we can obtain more, it would boost morale substantially, ready to push into Ruvia when the snows melt."
Peyton felt a flicker of fear for his men at the thought of such a task. His unit was excellent at ambushes and skirmishes, but they were certainly not prepared to face a Ruvian force already entrenched, ready to provide their own ambush.
"My Lord, I feel my men would not be best placed to perform this task. Should it indeed be an ambush, then my men would be overwhelmed quickly," Peyton respectfully argued.
Emhyr looked directly at Peyton, a frown seemed to engrave itself onto him. "I care not, Sir Peyton Whitehill. Sir Cedwyn believed it best to send you and your men to verify these sites. It is your intelligence, your mission, therefore do what is required to gather the information we need."
A feeling of dread burned through his body. Despite all that he and his unit had achieved, they were still expendable, and with Cedwyn's utter dislike for Peyton, he could imagine that it didn't take long for the Count of Oakfort to suggest the knight-errant and his band of men.
"Very well, my Lord. I shall return with news of each of these sites within the next few moons." Peyton responded, his salute appearing genuine despite how much it pained him to do so.
"Return, Sir Whitehill, you may not be of high standing, but you and your men are valuable for the war effort."
Before Peyton could react to the compliment, the commander of the second army had already turned away and walked briskly from his presence.
Looking toward the picture once more, Peyton felt angry, frustrated to know that despite the worth for the army that he and his men had shown, it paled in comparison to the need to sate the Count of Oakfort's satisfaction. While Sir Cedwyn lived and continued to provide thousands of men for the second army, Peyton's life would always be in danger.
Peyton couldn't even recall how he left the castle, or even how he had returned to his tent. His mind was in utter turmoil, and the frustration that he was experiencing was not like anything he had encountered before.
Taking a long hard look at the men under his command, he wondered how many would return from this mission. Some of them laughed together, huddled up to keep warm from the lowering temperatures, while a couple got into a heated dispute, only to ultimately fight each other. The men around them cheered them on, encouraging their altercation, but as eventually, one fell to the floor, they all stopped and cheered. Some celebrated with the victor, others consoled the defeated, and as both reconciled, their laughter became more rambunctious than before.
Considered the scourge of society, they weren't just a fighting force, they were men, doing what they could to survive each day. For Peyton, however, they were not just men, they were his men, he had given them hope when all appeared lost and now he would likely take most of their hope away simply because the Count of Oakfort did not like him.
Stepping into his tent, Jeffords immediately greeted him. His towering subordinate could instantly see that something bothered him, and with concern on his face he reacted, "Is everything ok, milord?"
Peyton's first reaction was to look toward the Chevalier Des Serres, who sat, still strapped to the tent post. Peyton did not trust him, even after saving his life on more than one occasion. This Ruvian knight appeared to be talking to him warmly, yet something about his eyes suggested it was all a ruse.
"Jeffords, with me," Peyton ordered, instantly turning out of the tent and encouraging Jeffords to follow his lead.
As the two stood in the cool breeze, Jeffords started to appear as concerned as his young commander. "Something up, milord?"
Peyton sighed, before looking up squarely at the man he considered to be a good friend. Were they not of different social standing, he could imagine the two of them being regular drinking buddies. "Ready the men, we have been tasked to scout the foraging sites that our prisoner has given us. We will need to prepare to move as the sun rises tomorrow."
"You think all that the ole Ruvi has said is truth?" Jeffords scoffed, exasperation dripping from his voice.
Peyton wanted to lie, but he knew Jeffords would see right through it, "Honestly, no," he said, "It all sounds too easy."
"Then why send us? If we are ambushed, it would be a slaughter."
"I know all too well. I fear that Lord Cedwyn's animosity toward me has put every man under my charge in extreme danger," Peyton sighed.
Jeffords casually placed his hand on his commander's shoulder, a gesture that some nobles would consider outrageous, but not Peyton who took it for what it was; comfort. "Every man who you command owes you their life. You took them from nothing, ready to be executed or banished. You gave them a new lease on life and a purpose. We don't care for the Emperor's war, and while some of these men get satisfaction from killing, you gave them a reason why, but also to temper their desires and calm their bloodlust. If we die on this mission, understand that we all gladly do it for you."
"That's what bothers me, I don't want their blood on my hands."
"And that is why they follow you. For most of them, you are the first man to treat them as human, and almost as equals. Besides, the Ruvi's won't know what hit them if they were to ambush us," Jeffords laughed.
Peyton laughed with him before his smile died down once more. "One more thing."
"No," Jeffords commented, stepping back with an air of caution thrown upon his face, "you can't do this to me."
"I'm sorry," Peyton replied, "I know you want to be there with me, but I need my best man to protect the prisoner. In my absence, they may attempt to abduct him."
Jeffords grew angry, a vein desperately attempting to escape from his neck, "you can't do this to me," he commented.
"I can, and I must," reacted Peyton, his assertiveness bringing the towering man to heel. This time it was Peyton resting his hand on Jeffords' shoulder. "Listen to me carefully, for this camp will soon be in complete chaos, and I will need you in my absence to fulfil the duty I can not."
Despite his stature, Jeffords immediately calmed down, his concentration immediately focusing on the man almost half his age.
"I have received word from Ravenscourt, words written by the Lord of the keep. Civil war has already begun, the Emperor attempted to assault the city and failed to take control of it. Once news of this travels here, which will be any time now, loyalties will be severely questioned," Peyton explained.
"But why? Why would the Emperor do such a reckless thing, knowing that Ravenscourt is a fortress."
Peyton looked around, ensuring that no ears could hear his next words. "Because an Aex-Igh lives, and if they live, our Emperor is not the Emperor. If he is not the Emperor, then this war is unjust, and the lives we have lost or taken would have died for nothing. This camp, the second army and possibly the whole of Isovine could be in danger of collapsing once news of this predicament comes to light."