The days and nights came by. The day grew noticeably shorter and colder as the waning days of fall began to draw near. On a day that just weeks earlier was basking in the light of the setting sun, there were only grey clouds to the west and the encroaching night that would last for months until the sun broke the clouds to announce the arrival of spring. The soldiers now walked around in heavy leather to keep themselves warm, and the Lords and Ladies of Anton pulled out bear and seal fur to insulate themselves. Tauron did not take such luxuries. He was wrapped in a simple blanket as he waited for word. From anywhere: his father, Horith Ryden, Desmond Guale. But there has not been a single letter in almost a week. Tauron felt adrift and the trees to the west were the land, but he had nothing to paddle towards it. His supper has been sitting at his bedside for an hour, and he never touched it. He did not even acknowledge Robert Oaran as he brought it in. The same as when he brought in lunch and breakfast.
"I fear for him," Helg and Julius were on their way to their meeting place and they passed by the Prince's room. They have not seen him since the council meeting, and it was clear to everyone who attending that meeting that the Prince was not well. His hair was unkempt and his beard was growing and untrimmed. He looked like he had aged a decade from the young man who left Raenna with his head held high and his blonde hair blowing in the wind like a maid's fairy-tale.
"Everyone does," Julius said, "I've never seen a commander so..." he could not find a word other than 'mad.'
"He's got a fifth of the soldiers in the Forthren, and half of the Royal Lands and he has no idea what to do with them. Why don't we just leave?"
"He had orders from the King not to enter the Westland unless he was called for by Lord Horith."
"In other words, we're not going anywhere," everyone knew Horith would rather see the Westland burn than ask for help from the Eastlanders.
"Perhaps one of his sons will be sensible."
"James Ryden is too timed," Helg said, "and Killian, the Warpig only skill at writing is with his hammer and his enemy's blood."
"We can't just stand by as the Westland burns!"
"We did during the Rorchistyr Rebellion. Truly the only one who can save the Westland is Horith Ryden."
"He did not win the Rorchistyr Rebellion!" Julius exclaimed, "He merely cleaned up the scraps of the Rorchistyr army that his father left behind."
"True, but he has kept the Westland stable for more than fifty years. They do not call him 'Horith the Bloody' for nothing."
"If Horith can't scare it into submission this time, than perhaps our only hope is the stare of the Frogman," Julius said, the only other person in Liticea who could match Horith Ryden for infamy. He lived i the swamps just beyond the reach of Duke Yorod Dayvey. Though he was a vassal, the Lord of the Swamplands ruled on his own.
"You know Desmond Guale will not cooperate."
"We have his son," Julius pointed out.
"That won't stop him from fucking us over somehow. And when he does, he'll have the Prince in the palm of his hands," Helg knew Tauron better than all the men in this castle. He was a smart, rational man, but he had a breaking point. Helg felt he already did something stupid by taking Baldrick Gaule, and if Desmond pushes him hard he could make mistake that could cost the country dearly. Lord Desmond would not care. He would go hide in his swamp as the world around him burned.
Before they could get to their room, the pair heard horns sounding outside the walls. They signaled the approach of an army. Two horn blows signaled the approach of an uncertainty. One was for friendly forces and three was for enemies. It could not be the King, nor could it be Lord Desmond if that was the horn they used.
Helg and Julius turned around and rushed back to find out. As they passed the Prince's chambers they stopped and knocked.
"My Prince, someone approaches!" Helg called as he pounded on the door.
The door opened and the Prince came out dressed formally, but with his sword strapped to his belt.
"Let's go," he said. The three of them followed a growing group of soldiers as they all rushed to the wall to see who was approaching. They streamed towards the east end, where the cries of the guards of the walls were being heard.
On their way there, they bumped into Bartera Noc and Martin Bailor.
"Captain Noc, what is going on?"
"An army approaches, my Prince," she said as they all hurried to the east wall, "No discernible colors."
"Is it Lord Desmond?"
"No, it's too small," Bailor said.
Hundreds of men were swarming to their positions. This unknown army prompted them all to prepare for an attack. The formal entrance for a friendly army would be announced at least a day in advanced. This sporadic appearance might a prerequisite to an attack.
Tauron and the others finally reached the wall above the east gate and far down the road appeared to be a large black snake slithering closer and closer. It was not a large army, but it had at least a thousand men. It was not marching with the order and discipline of the Blackfield and Anthre armies. It was just a long jumble of people who seemed to be marching at their own pace, but there were several riders that seemed to be herding the men into place.
"What are their colors?" Helg called out to the soldiers.
"I think I can make out a... frog, milord!" one called out.
"It is Lord Desmond?," Tauron asked. It could not be, Lord Desmond could field at least ten thousand soldiers.
"No," Julius growled. Tauron turned to him and asked who it was that was coming. As they got closer, the Frog of House Gaule did become visible, but it was different colors.
"It's the Bastard Brigade," he said angrily, "Keep that gate shut!" he shouted to the men. He could not let them into the castle.
Tauron, Lord Balter Oaran, and a wall of shields and spears were there to meet the Bastard Brigade as they came upon the gates of Anton. Up close, they were the dirtiest and most ragged group of men Tauron ever saw be passed off as soldiers. Their armor was little more than old, degraded leather and plates so brown with rust they looked like they were wearing tree bark. They carried spears, blunt swords, but most of them were armed with daggers. In battle, they were known for being little more than arrow fodder, but for the Swamplands, they were the cruel hand of Desmond Gaule.
The Bastard Brigade was a conscript force assembled by Lord Desmond nearly sixteen years ago to offer freedom to criminals in exchange for fighting the Corasians. But they were never freed, they just became his new police force. When a job was too dirty for House Horcaster, the Brigade would come in and get it done. Often, they look for the absolute worst locked away in the dungeons of Liticea. The army houses killers, rapists, thieves, cheaters, mutilators and all the rest of the worst offenders. Every man woman and child in the Swampland fears having the Bastards let loose on them.
A single rider came fourth. He wore a long, worn-out green cloak that had a frog exactly like the frog of Guale, except instead of green it was black and instead of a water for the background it was pinkish-red. He was as well-dressed as could be spotted in this rabble and he had a scabbard at his side. He was tall and thin, much like his master. His eyes were wide and bulging and his receding hair was as gray as the sky above. What struck Tauron the most was his smile. This man looked more like Desmond Guale than his half-brother ever did.
"My Prince. My Lords," he greeted kindly.
"Who are you?" Tauron demanded to know.
"And what is this you've brought to my castle?" Oaran added.
"My name is Rolrik Frog, son of Lord Desmond Gaule, Arch-baron of the Swamplands. This merry band behind me is what you call the Bastard Brigade, made of the absolute best of the worst this country has to offer."
"We know of you, Bastard," Ulysses said, his sword in hand. Everyone was eagerly awaiting an order from the Prince to run these decrepit creatures down and back to the mud pits they came from.
"My father sends his compliments, and has instructed me and my band of brothers to accompany you in the liberation of the Westland."
"You will not take one more step towards my castle," Oaran warned.
"And you're not coming with us," Tauron said, "March back to where you came from and tell Lord Desmond that he is to march all his armies here at once."
Rolrik and the goons behind him only laughed at the Prince's demands, "I'm afraid, my Prince, that my men are extremely tired. We've been marching for weeks on end to get here, to join you in the glorious fight for Liticea," he slowly rode closer, and the archers on the wall drew their arrows and the men on the ground raise their spears.
"Is this how House Oaran welcomes their guests?" Rolrik asked slyly.
"This is how we welcome bastards."
The Bastard of Gaule laughed hard and his mouth opened frighteningly wide, "Come now, Balter Oaran. We did not come here to fight. We are your friends. We come on behalf of my father's good wishes."
"It's Lord Balter to you, and I would not accept good wishes from Desmond Gaule if they made me richer than the King!"
Rolrik made a loud noise, like a growling cat. His lips curled back and revealed yellow teeth that he bared for all the Lords to see. His horse kept creeping closer and the spears rose higher and the archers pulled their bows tighter.
"My father is upset that his son has been seized," Rolrik said, "My own brother."
"Baldrick Gaule has not been harmed. And if Lord Desmond wants it to stay that way he will obey my orders," Tauron shot back.
"Ha! I personally wouldn't care if he died. If my dear brother were to pass, my father will give me the family name and name me heir. So Prince Tauron, if you're feeling strong by all means send the order. I'll let him pass with my blessing."
"Do as the Prince says, Bastard," Ulysses spoke, "Turn this mob around and tell Lord Desmond to come back with his regular army."
"By the time he'd get here, winter will have come and the Westland will have fallen. I've heard horror stories of the Morcars approaching Rainguard as we speak. By the time you are done with your tantrum, the Westland will belong to them and Horith Ryden will spend the winter with his head on a pike. So what shall it be, my Prince?"
Tauron could not admit it, but the Bastard was right. If he turned the back and waited for the rest of Desmond's troops, he would be waiting for at least a month. That is if they ever showed up at all. If was clear from this stunt that Desmond did not intend to help the campaign any further. He could just turn them back and march anyway, but he would be well under what he intended to be. Though most of Lord Oaran's vassals have reported in, he did not have the men that Tauron needed to drive away one hundred thousand Morcars. At his feet were a thousand men, the absolute worst of Liticea. But it was what he had, and if he was lucky perhaps they would all get slaughtered.
"You will not enter the castle," Tauron stated.
"My Prince," a voice filled with dread came from Ulysses, "You're not seriously considering using these men."
"It's a thousand men, Sir Ulysses. We are short as it is."
"My Prince this man is scum," all the men, especially those of Forthren vigorously agreed with the Knight, "I've seen what they do. These are not soldiers. These are rabid dogs. They were the worst criminals before they came here. Some of these men have murdered dozens of innocents. They have raped even more. They have no order, no skill and no respect for anyone. Except Desmond Gaule."
"Well now they will have to learn to respect me," he edged his horse forward so that it was parallel with Rolrik's. The two men met eyes. Frog was so terribly like his father.
"Can I expect that of you, Rolrik Frog?" he asked calmly but with a threatening edge.
"Hehe, any member of the Royal Family will always have the respect and loyalty of me and all my fellow bastards," he replied smiling , baring his teeth. Up close Tauron saw that they were surprisingly clean and straight. Rolrik was probably the cleanest man in the Bastard Brigade.
"I will accept your service," Rolrik bowed on his hose in an elegant, but phony fashion, "But if any man of yours kills one of mine, I'll have him pulled apart by horses. Any man rapes a woman, I'll have his cock chopped off and stuffed down his throat. Any man who steals will lose both of his hands. Moreover, if you do any of those things I will not hesitate to have you killed."
Tauron spoke low so only the bastard could here. Rolrik's grim smile vanished and it got replaced with that snarl they saw earlier. It was a horrible face, but Tauron did not flinch. He just stared the bastard down until he broke eye contact and looked away.
"Do I make myself clear, Bastard?"
Rolrik growled before bringing back that feigned smile again, "Absolutely, my Prince."
All the young knights were drawn to the East wall to see what was going on. Word quickly spread that the notorious Bastard Brigade had come to Anton. Eliza was on her own. She could not find Jergan and the others in this crowd. She recognized the Frog of House Guale, but the coloration was all different. In addition, the way the spearmen outside the gate were ready to attack did not signal a positive message.
The Bastard Brigade was a popular horror story at the School of Chivalry. They were the monsters that lurked in the waters of the Swampland, they dragged away little girls and butchered them. Now here they were. This made Eliza more nervous than any thought of the coming battle with the Morcars. At least with them, you saw them you killed them. The Prince was welcoming these men into the army. She would have to fight side-by-side with men who probably raped many girls her age.
Later someone did find her. It was Bartera Noc. They spotted each other when the crowd was being dispersed. The Brigade was now herding its way to a campsite far away from the walls.
"Lady Elenor," Noc greeted.
"Captain, so good to see you again."
"You too. I suppose you saw that," she referred to the Bastards.
"How could the Prince let this happen? How can he let those men into our army?"
"Those aren't men," the captain said quietly, "They are rats in human flesh. I'm speaking to you as a fellow woman; do not go near them. Neither of us can go near them."
"They cannot touch me!" she pouted. She felt more afraid with each passing second, "I'm the daughter of a Duke."
"That will not matter to them. If anything, it will encourage them. They would be willing to go to the grave if they could say they took a daughter of Markus Elenor."
Eliza tried to speak, but the fear was growing inside of her so fast she could not hold it in and she began to cry. For the first time in her life, she felt truly afraid for her own safety, and it was from her own people. She could live with the fear of dying at the hands of a Morcar, but being mauled, clawed, and torn apart by that group of savages was to much for her. The fact that the Prince let them in only made her feelings of security and comradery in the army even thinner. How could he feel that when the Commander allows child-killers to join it. She did not care that there were people around to witness it, she just let it go.
Bartera did give her a scolding look like the masters at the School would do if any of the students began to tear up. Her face was alive with understanding. Eliza recalled that she had two daughters, and her motherly instincts must be surfacing.
After opening the floodgates, Eliza slowly worked them shut again. The crying stopped but the tears would not. When she looked down, she felt a hand gently fall on her shoulder, and the captain spoke in a way that did not bear any resemblance to the confident, commanding voice she usually had.
"Do not fear, Lady Eliza. You're stronger than any man in that mob. If they came after you, you would make them a feast for the buzzards before they could even reach for their knives. Even so, keep your friends close, those boys from Blackfield. They will stand by your side, should you ever need their help," Eliza looked up. The Captain reminded her of her mother.
"And so will I. If you ever need any help, come to me."
"I-I will, Captain Noc. Thank you," before she left, the captain stretched out her hand for her to shake and wore a reassuring smile. Eliza took it, and the two parted not just as comrade, but also as friends.
Nakbar Nazeen was spared most of the drama of the Bastard Brigade's arrival. There were precious few things to do in this rolling green patch of nothing these Litici call a country. There was nothing interesting here. No dunes or wastes, nor great rock formations or anything remotely as stunning as the Sand Cities down south. It was just the little fat orange man's castle and miles and miles and miles of farmland. There were not even any interesting animals to see. Back home, Nakbar would pass the time with his company hunting lions and rhinos in the great plains before he would embark on business. This was by far the most boring job he had ever done. There were not even any wolves around.
The only place that was any fun was the dingy brothel about a half-mile outside the West Gate. Nakbar and his company must have set these girls up for lie with the amount of time they have spent here. The business itself was not particularly rewarding, but it was something to do. And many of them did have some interesting stories of how they ended up at this worn down pleasue house. Apparently the reason why the service is not so satisfactory is because Lord Oaran has been trying everything he would to keep people away from it. Since they were not seeing much gold, all the whores who knew how to do their job well left for other places. The Brandy House at Blackfield or the Enticing Serpent at Noor. Those who could afford or were too afraid to travel stayed here, for whatever lordling was willing to sneak out to test his manhood. Apparently some are so poor that it has become difficult for the whores to do their job.
"Some of the squeal louder than we do," said a brown haired one tucked under Nakbar's arm as they rested on the bed. After the intimate part of the business, he liked to talk to them. This story he found particularly funny.
"And you say that you don't feel a thing?" he asked, his eyes open with surprise.
His little friend laughed, "Those pants Lord Oaran has they wear crumples their little manhoods up into little stubs," she said as she herself crumpled up some blankets, "It has been years since I felt a real man."
Nakbar smiled, "And I suppose I am real man, no?"
"Yes," she began to stroke him where he felt it, "You're so good to me that I'm beginning to think you love me."
"Maybe I'll take you back to Useria. Make you my wife."
She gave him a lustful grin, "But will your others wives feel like you don't care about them anymore."
"Other wives?."
"Don't you Userians take ten wives a man?"
Nakbar laughed, "If only I were so lucky. I think you would be a fine wife."
"You don't even know my name," she pointed out.
"What does that matter? I can tell already you will birth me many sons."
"Ani is my name. My Userian Lion. And I like whatever you want me to like," as he was about to mount him a crashing sound came from down stairs. One of Nakbar's men opened the door and signaled for him to follow. He bid farewell to his lady and ran towards the commotion. The House was two stories, and the stairs went down not to far from the door. There were several new men in the house. None of Nakbar's men, but Litici. All of them were filthy, both in hygiene and in vibe.
One of these men had a whore pinned facedown on a table and was forcing himself onto her as he struggled to get away. His companions kept away the others with knives.
"What is this?" Nakbar shouted.
The man briefly looked up. his mouth was painted red from where he had bitten his victim.
"None of your business, sand rat," he said in a scratchy inhuman voice, and he went back to his pleasure.
The teeth in Nakbar's mouth grinded together as he descended the stairs. There were at least seven men, and Nakbar only had four.
"If there is one thing I cannot stand," he made sure the man heard him, "Is is men who would torment a poor girl for his pleasure."
The man reared up, spitting out some blood he had licked up. He threw the girl to the ground and she crawled away. The others helped her to her feet and they all scrambled away.
"Little brown sand rat wants to tell me what to do?" he drew his own knife. Nakbar left his sword in camp. Only one man had a short sword. Nakbar and the rest of his men only had knives.
The man would have been considered handsome by most in his earlier years, but it was the eyes. They were small and appeared to be yellow as that of a wild beast. His teeth were always visible and seemed to be grinding against each other.
"You don't know who I am, do you?"
"Should I?" there were many men Nakbar came across who claimed to have famous names.
"Ask that whore right there. She'll tell you."
The poor girl was cowering in a corner, her face as white as if she had just seen a ghost. Given who the man was, a ghost would have been less scarring, "He's the Butcher of Marthal!"
Every whore in the building turned as white as the poor girl, and began to back as far away from the man as possible. The ones who followed Nakbar and his men downstairs retreated back up.
Nakbar felt the color flow from his own face. The rage that he felt from seeing that man attack that girl now swelled to unimaginable heights. The Butcher of Marthal was a name that was famous even in Useria, for his murder of dozens of poor girls. He has disappeared for years, and now he show up with Desmond Gaule's Bastard Brigade.
"If you want to live, you will get out of my sight," Nakbar drew his weapons. The Butcher was good at slitting the throats of defenseless girls, but against a warrior such as Nakbar, he would crumple like a house made of sticks.
"Ooh. Big strong sand rat wants to tell me what to do. Isn't that funny boys?"
Butcher's companions all laughed harshly. They had twice the numbers of the Userians, and two of them had swords. Poorly balanced and chipped, but swords nonetheless.
"Losinger, what should we do with the funny brown men?" the butcher asked a tall stick of a man standing next to him. The man had a thin scrub of blond hair atop his tall head with none on his sides or back.
"Hehe, I say we give 'em to Princess. He'll find your Userian asses quite pleasurable. He won't mind if you're dead or not."
"Yeah, he don't mind some dead meat!" said another a with a silver tooth where his canine should be. It was longer and sharper than a normal tooth should be.
"We'll let Princess have his way with you, I think we will," the Butcher waved his knife back and fourth in front of his nose, "but I think I'll take your scalp. I don't prefer boys usually, but I suppose I need a little change."
He drew his knife and swung the blade across the Butcher's face and split his lips and the bridge of his nose. The Butcher dove away and Losinger tried to stab at Nakbar's gut. He stepped aside, grabbed his arm and kicked his legs out from under him. The other Bastards and Userians joined in the fight and in a minute two were dead and four men lay on the ground wounded.
After Nakbar killed the second man, the Butcher pounced on him. The Userian was shocked at how strong he was. The Butcher had him on his back and his knife hand pinned against the floor. The blood from his cut was dripping onto Nakbar's face. He must have weighed at least twice as much for Nakbar could not move. He found the fingers of the Butcher around his throat, slowly squeezing the life out of him.
Nakbar's neck might have been snapped if an unknown boot had not come out of nowhere and smashed the butcher in the head. The kicker must have been strong for Butcher of Marthal when rolling like a tumbling rock. Standing above Nakbar as he was gasping for his breath was a man in black studded armor.
"Enough!" Rolrik Frog shouted at the top of his voice. The remaining bastards stopped fighting. They backed away from the Userian foes and turned submissively towards him, "All of you scum fucks get outside. Take these bodies and bury them. The next man who steps in here loses his manhood!"
They did as he said. Within ten seconds they were all out the door. Except for the butcher, who was still recovering from the kick to the face.
"You to, Marthal," low in voice, he spoke in a way that made even Nakbar's skin crawl.
He was red in face, the butcher was. When he stood at full height he was a foot taller than Rolrik. But the Bastard of Gaule stared him down like he was a small child. Marthal followed the others out. Rolrik put on a pleasant smile when they left.
"My apologies, my good sirs. These men can be quite a lot of trouble."
"You're the leader of the company that just came in," Nakbar said as he got to his feet. This man was not as aggressive as his subordinates, but just the way he sent the all away with just his words told Nakbar to keep his eyes on this one.
"I am. Rolrik Frog, son of Archbaron Desmond Gaule. Commander of the Bastard Brigade."
"A bastard. Small world."
"Oh, are we brothers out of wedlock?"
"I don't know. I was raised in a small monastery. What of you, Rolrik son of Desmond?"
"I was born to a harlot of the swamp. Not a very sophisticated starting point I'm afraid."
"Yeah," Nakbar pointed to the door, "Care to tell why the Butcher of Marthal rides with you?"
"Oh, Aiden Marthal? He's quite the character. Father bought him for a hefty price."
"Bought him? Like a slave?"
"I suppose," Rolrik was unsettlingly preppy, "If you'll excuse me, I've got to make sure they don't cause anymore trouble. Good day mister...?"
"Nakbar Nazeen."
"Mr. Nazeen. Good day. And you too gentlemen," Rolrik said the other bloody men as he left the brothel. Nakbar and his men all exchanged looks, wondering what kind of crowd they have gotten mixed up in.