In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - Ingvarr

A few days later, once the hospitality of Sarpsborg had revitalised the haggard refugees, Ingvarr strode out to the training ground on the outskirts of the settlement, with his new followers trailing nervously behind him.  Before reaching the edge of the field, Ingvarr paused at the horse enclosure, picking out adequate mounts for his new cohort.

For Valdemar he selected a large, dun-coloured stallion with a fiery temperament much like its new owner. To Katja, he gave a slightly smaller, finer, gray gelding with what seemed to be a more mellow temperament. Both were fine beasts, and Ingvarr had to use all of the sway he held as a Forerunner to procure them.

Outfitting the rest of the survivors with slightly more average, chestnut and bay horses, he strode over to the Forerunners’ enclosure where the animals bred for their size resided. No other horses were able to carry the immense bulk of a Forerunner, borne of their enormous height and their iron hard muscles.

For a Forerunner, choosing a horse was slightly more personal. Some thought that Forerunner horses were an entirely different breed to the more common Waste stock, due to the fact that they towered over their counterparts. Forerunner horses were also famed for being far more intelligent, aggressive and, if you could earn it, loyal, than any other steed in the known world.

Striding confidently to what appeared to be the lead stallion in the herd, Ingvarr stopped a few paces from it and stared it in one large, dark brown eye. The black stallion immediately began to grow restless at the challenge, tossing its head and beginning to prance on the spot.
He reached out,  and Ingvarr placed two fingers on either side of the horse’s nose, just above the nostrils, and pressing into the pressure point. The movements ceased, and with his other hand, Ingvarr reached down the horse’s neck to firmly grab a handful of its mane.
Here he paused, knowing what would come next, and slightly nervous of the onlookers. The moment would be crucial for gaining respect among those who would hopefully become his senior commanders.

Steeling himself, he moved. In one fluid motion, he released the horse’s nose, and sprung up onto its back, using the handful of mane to steady himself. Instantly the horse went mad; bucking and rearing, throwing itself around the enclosure and causing the rest of the herd to shrink back. Holding on to the same tuft of hair grimly, Ingvarr allowed the animal to vent its indignant rage at being challenged. Just as he felt the animal begin to tire he also felt, with a cold dread, the hair of the horse’s mane begin to slip between his fingers. Gripping the beast tightly through his woven trousers, Ingvarr let go of the mane for a split second to adjust his grip. In that split second, the horse nearly had him off, as it did a particularly energetic rear.

Ingvarr was tipped right back in his seat, forcing him to dig his heels into his mount’s flanks. As the beast’s front feet crashed back to the ground, Ingvarr was thrown forward, his hand plunged involuntarily into the mane before him.  Feeling more confident with the more secure grip, Ingvarr tensed, ready for the resumption of the onslaught.

Except that it did not come.  The horse, trembling with exhaustion, simply stood. The silence which had descended over the area was eerie, the onlookers unwilling to break the spell, or unsure as to quite what had happened. Slipping his leg over, Ingvarr slid slowly to the ground and moved back to the horse’s head, all the while patting its neck and speaking in a low, calm voice.
“What shall I call you? Orvar...” The horse snorted in what seemed to be acquiescence, gently nudging Ingvarr in the chest.
“Yes, Orvar...” Before he turned away, Ingvarr dipped his head in respect. As he returned to the edge of the enclosure, his officers silently parted, and the awe was clear on all of their faces.

Seemingly uncaring of the drama, Ingvarr calmly returned to his walk to one side of the expanse which constituted the training ground. He did not need to look back to know that the others had followed him.
“Right, this change I am trying to create will not work, it will not work, without the aid of others who are committed to its progress. Are you so committed? If not, then leave now, I have no use for you.” Pausing to glance round the still circle, he then continued.
“What are the main strengths of the Laternae military? Anyone?” Ingvarr was eager that they should learn his tactics by working them out on their own.”

Valdemar was the one who tentatively raised a hand. “Their organisation?” He quickly lowered his hand, swiftly followed by his gaze, as Ingvarr fixed him with his unusual pale grey eyes.
“Yes exactly; their organisation, and more: their discipline. In that way only, we must try to be more like them.” At this, Valdemar’s head snapped up and he looked as though he might protest, before Ingvarr glanced his way whereupon he visibly restrained himself.
“Think about how we fight. Not as an individual, but as a unit, how do we fight?” There was a slight pause as they considered, before one of Valdemar’s men cautiously raised a hand.
Ingvarr looked inquiringly in his direction and he spoke up: “Helmar, Forerunner, we do not fight as units; it is up to each individual to gain honour in whatever way he sees fit.”
Nodding sadly at the answer, Ingvarr realised just how much there was to teach. “You are right, of course, we fight as individuals. I do not think that the individual should fight for his own honour however. What if instead it were a group fighting for each other, and the honour of a collective unit?”

At this there was some unease, as those gathered round began muttering at such foreign ideas. “Why though?” Exasperated, Ingvarr spun and strode to a nearby table where lay a few quivers full of arrows.
Picking an arrow out he handed it to Valdemar. “Break this.” Confused, he did so with ease. In response, Ingvarr pulled out a dozen arrows, bunching them together and then handing them to Valdemar.
“Now break these.” Beginning to grasp Ingvarr’s point, Valdemar tried. Putting all his strength behind it, he still did not manage to break even a single one.
“You all see then, that alone, no matter how strong you are as an individual, it is easy to break you, and yet together you are strong.”
It became clear afterwards that his point had been made, for they began to follow and agree with his ideas. It took a while to explain the tactics, and equipment of his new units.

His ‘arrows’ would comprise of fifteen men, or women, each commanded by a representative chosen from among their unit, and named a Minghaan. These units would then be grouped into Quivers of twenty-five Arrows, each commanded by an ataman. A hetman would command eight such Quivers, forming a Sheaf, and totalling around 3, 000 troops at full strength.
The tactics were a little more complex. Ingvarr’s aim, in the creation of small, seemingly independent units was to project a vision of chaos to any enemy commander. It was to organised chaos however, with each unit being kept in contact by a veritable horde of messengers. This army of messengers would be where all young boys started their careers; riding around on small, agile ponies at breakneck speed.

The following day when he recalled them, the group could not help but look disappointed when Ingvarr led them once again to a distant edge of the field once again. The second day was spent running through more specific tactics and manoeuvres that would be used by the various units of the new formation army. The point which Ingvarr tried to reiterate time and again was that of avoiding direct, hand-to-hand engagement.
“Forerunner, we all know that the kind of combat which you are describing is less honourable than looking your enemy in the face when you strike him down.” Kjell’s resistance immediately disappeared when Ingvarr described what would happen if lightly armoured tribesmen went against the heavily armoured and much more professional lancers. 
“Have you seen how much damage a lancer on the full charge can do to a human body? The armour we wear is not able to deal with it, so why not let them charge at nothing, waste their energy and then destroy them without risk?”

As he let his words sink in, he was aware that the sun had begun to sink towards the horizon. “That is all for today, but tonight I want you all to start finding recruits for tomorrow. We will start putting this into effect, finally. Training will begin for the first few days with honing of the talents we all have in archery and hand-to-hand combat, and we will move on after that to mounted archery.”
***
Valdemar

Stalking away from the training field feeling he had slightly been made a fool of, Valdemar decided to occupy himself with Ingvarr’s ideas instead.

Although that trick with the arrows may have made him look weak, but it was undeniable that he had made his point well. He had understood most of what had been said and he supposed it made sense. The demonstration with the arrows had certainly proved it more than any of Ingvarr’s words. Beginning to feel slightly better, he strode back into town in search of potential recruits. Valdemar reached the central square just as the communal evening meal was beginning. Making it over to the far side, to the very edge of the water, he turned and shouted for everyone’s attention.

“I don’t know how many of you were here a few days ago, but I want to tell you that the last Migration was almost entirely destroyed. There are at most a score of survivors, and I am one of them.” He sighed and then continued.
“Nor was it my first. That happened when I was twelve, and I bear the scars still. Here and here,” touching first his cheek with almost a caress, and tapping his forehead to indicate the damage he had suffered psychologically.
“How many of you have been on a Migration?” No one raised their hands as he knew they wouldn’t.
“I have been on two. I have lost everything to the Laternae and I know many of you will have lost relatives. I have for a long time been looking for a way to strike back, and I feel it has finally been found. Ingvarr, the Second Forerunner of the Western Edge has devised new tactics to faced them, tactics which will work. To make this work, we need volunteers; recruits. Any of you are welcome to join us.” He paused before forging ahead, ignoring the muttering which erupted with his next words. “Men and women both, all are welcome. Training begins in two days. Ride out to the nearby villages. Tell everyone you see. Everyone has a purpose.”
Perhaps half of the crowd began a ragged round of applause but it did not really catch on, and died down quickly. Despite this Valdemar remained hopeful but knew he would only find out how effective his spontaneous speech had been.
***
Qira

When she woke up the next morning, Lillah was gone, presumably to her lessons. Qira got up slowly, and walked over to her desk. Realising it was not big enough for her purpose, she moved her bags onto it from the floor where they had resided for the past day and a half. This being done, she left her room only pausing to snatch up a pouch of coin, inclining her head politely to the omnipresent guard posted outside. She did not actually know his name, as he never spoke, but he always seemed to be there whenever she left her room.
First she went down into the hall, striding along with purpose. Before long, she was outside the first set of gates and walking down the hill along the sleepy main street. Due to the fact that it was only just past dawn, the city had only started to wake. Shopkeepers had begun setting out covered, wooden tables in front of their homes. Despite the early hour, the clouds had already descended on the city, and Qira was eager to be back inside before it began to rain.

She knew exactly where she was headed, and it took almost no time at all: the bowyer’s shop was less than a hundred metres from the inner wall. Qira reached the shop to find a wiry, middle-aged man setting up. Unlike many of the other shop fronts, there was no table at the front; the whole shop was indoors, on the ground floor. The entire room was covered with bows in various states of construction, and even a few half-finished crossbows.
Upon entering, Qira coughed slightly, and the shopkeeper straightened, turning to face her with a smile already sliding on to his face. The two had met before, and he had had a hand in teaching her how to build bows during her earlier years. Today however was no time for idle chat, as she wanted to be home before the rain –or snow- began to fall.

After a quick greeting, the man led her to the back of the shop where the raw bow staves were kept, and she spent nearly a full twenty minutes examining various of them. After a good deal of deliberation, she selected a good quality stave of yew heartwood. She reached into the pouch at her waste, but the man waved her away. 
Qira smiled widely in thanks and left the man there at the back of the shop. On the way out, she was careful to leave a handful of coins on the counter. While she was grateful for the man’s generosity, she just did not feel justified in depriving the man of income, given her affluent background.

Qira emerged into the overcast morning with the stave resting on one shoulder, and started back up the hill towards the inner gate. Just as she was stepping under the gate, the first drops of water began to descend from the sky, beading on her sleek hair. Qira picked up the pace, and managed to reach the shelter of the hall. This was not due to any vanity, or discomfort in the rain, but because she wanted to preserve the stave before she had varnished it.

Before returning to her room, she stopped off in the bowels of the hall to request a proper workstation and a list of tools from one of the household carpenters. The slightly bewildered man agreed, and said he would have someone bring the items up before noon.
What with there being not much further to do but wait until then, Qira returned to her room with the stave and set it down propped against one wall. She then made her way over to the desk and retrieved one of the books piled there. It wasn’t a particularly good one –merely a collection of children’s stories- but Qira was only looking for a way of passing the time. The book was simply written however, and Qira quickly finished it.

Despite this, she had to admit they were stimulating: tales of unrequited love, heroic quests and valiant knights fighting monsters.
Scarcely an hour before noon, there came a knock at the door. She called out that whoever it was should enter, and the carpenter she had seen earlier bustled in with an armful of tools. He was followed closely by a pair of her father’s burly guardsmen carrying a sturdy table between them.
Qira motioned for them to set it down against the wall next to her desk, and they left without word. The guards had thought to bring some food on a tray, and set it down on the desk on his way out, and Qira smiled to them in thanks.

After they had left, Qira picked at the food for a while before retrieving the stave from its place against the wall, and placed it on the work station.
She had decided upon making the bow before she made the pair of gloves, owing to the need to allow the glue to dry. First she retrieved the small bag from the desk, and laid out the now-dry tendons she had taken from the doe. This done, she began to plane the stave with one of the drawknives brought by the carpenter, shaping the bow into a more finished shape.

The task took all afternoon, and when she was finally happy with it, her stomach had begun to rumble loudly, and Qira realised she had forgotten all about the food set on the desk next to her. Looking wistfully at the stale bread, and slightly soft cheese, she set the bow down.
Qira picked up the tray and returned it quickly to the kitchen, where she met Lillah, sat on a bench, chatting merrily away with a few of the doting cooks as they went about their work. Grinning, Qira joined her, and was quickly brought some food unasked for. She accepted the food with words
of thanks and the rest of the evening passed uneventfully.

The next day, Qira returned to the bow and began the process of gluing the tendons and sinew retrieved from the doe down the back of the bow.
Nearly two weeks went by, with Qira carefully gluing pieces to the bow each and every morning, before gulping down a quick meal, and going to the few lessons she still had. They were mainly about history now: she had been learning the intricacies of the Schism, both in terms of the military campaigns her father had led, from the Wuduwesten Forest campaign, through the Siege of Minglun, the Battle of Feorghifa Plain, and right up until the Battle of Aesernia. As well as this, she had the occasional session with her father about how he had united the province following their formal secession from the Republic. For her, these included interesting lessons on diplomacy, and the finer points of high politics.
After she had finished fiddling with the bow, she left it to dry, and set about shaping pieces out of the deerskin to make into gloves. For this part, Qira required Lillah’s assistance briefly, as she needed to measure the size of her younger sister’s hands. With this done, Qira had to shoo her from the room, in a half-hearted attempt to make her go to her own lessons.
After that, the gloves took her only one short morning to make, for once she had cut the shapes from the skin, all that remained to do was to sew the pieces together. The tattered remains of the skin she put aside, and later sent them to one of the leatherworkers in the city with instructions to cure them.

Just after she had dispatched the skin to be made into the leather, Qira heard a knock at door, and called out an invitation. The door opened, and a young squire named Uriel was revealed. She realised that she was using the term ‘young’ fairly loosely – the boy was only a year her junior.
“Come in, Uriel. Your message?” Qira did her best to smile and put the obviously nervous boy at ease. He seemed to appreciate her effort, and managed to get his words out after some initial stuttering. Qira grinned to herself; Uriel had been a squire in her father’s court for the past three years, and he seemed to have developed something of a crush on his liege’s beautiful daughter. At the moment however, Qira had no interest at all in boys, or the attention they showed her, and she had a feeling Uriel’s love would remain unrequited for some time to come. It was not that he was unattractive to her. She had met him a fair amount, and from what she had heard, he was kind and gentle, funny and yet mature beyond his seventeen years. Accompanying this, his body had developed with the constant weapons training that came alongside some of his other duties. In the three years he had been here, Qira had seen him develop from a rangy boy into a powerfully-built young man. At some of her meals in the kitchens she had heard some of the younger staff swooning over his charm and good looks.
“My lady?” Qira shook herself as she realised that Uriel had been talking.
“My apologies. You were saying?”

“Lord Kang wishes to remind you of your sister’s upcoming birthday, and the tournament that is being held in her honour. He also expects you in court over the next few days, and asks that you dress appropriately.” Qira was both surprised and impressed that he had managed to get through the speech, and decided that he must have been rehearsing it on the way over.
She smiled and nodded, dismissing him. Uriel turned and left, and she heard him chatting briefly with the guard outside. She thought she heard a growled warning, but then Uriel pulled the door closed, and all was quiet once more.

Qira hated court. It was just not her natural habitat. While she accepted the need for a court –it centralised her father’s power, and enforced the loyalty of the other nobles- she did not see why she had to attend just yet.
Then she realised. All of the nobles would be in Minglun for her sister’s birthday; it was an opportunity to curry favour with her father. Lord Kang wanted to show off his daughters. At the age of eighteen, it was unusual that Qira had remained unmarried, and the only reason she had was because her father respected her feelings, and her free spirit. As she grew older however, she knew that pressure must be mounting on him to select a match for her: someone who would promote internal unity, or secure her family’s political security.

Inwardly groaning, she stalked over to her wardrobe, and began selecting outfits for the next few days. This was part of the reason she hated having to go to court. Qira hated wearing dresses, and especially the ones currently in fashion. The top halves of these dresses were tight-fitting corsets, and they were, like many fashionable clothes, very uncomfortable. Now she knew the other reason for her father’s direct summons, she was even more reluctant to attend. Qira did not feel at all ready to get married.
By the evening, she had at least managed to discern one upside. At least in court she would be able to hear firsthand about the troubles of the land.
***