Prologue: Karth I - The Westmarch

The sounds of battle rang out and filled the air – steel clashing with steel, the yelling of orders and the screams of the wounded and dying. Blood soaked the soil and the tang of iron filtered into everyone's nostrils. Hundreds of men clad in chain and leather who had once packed themselves into two orderly battle lines now intermingled and fought for survival in the chaos of the melee. Here and there, the banners of the three Houses present stood proud against the clear blue sky, but their bearers were lost in the sea of soldiers.
“It seems awfully unbefitting for such a battle to occur on a day such as this.” Ser Alec Vesa said lightly, sidling his horse towards his companion. “Such battles always seem to occur during a storm in the songs.” He laughed lightly, his hand slack on his reins.
His companion did not laugh.
“If we win, you can put whatever you want in your song.” Ser Karth Vasquy replied, his steely eyes travelling over the field. “I care not what they say of this day, so long as we are victorious.” Alec grinned a blinding smile at him that almost outshone the polish of his golden armour, framed as it was with a deep blue cape and the sigil of a white stag upon its breast. His handsome face was likewise framed with golden hair, under which his hazel eyes sat like carven wooden.
“Come now, Karth.” He clapped his right hand down on his companion's pauldron, leaning across the gap between their mounts. “There will be songs to commemorate the two of us. We are the finest swordsmen in all of Valderyn, you and I.” Karth nodded slowly.
“And yet two swordsmen cannot win a war alone.” he said finally, further straightening his back. His black hair hung in waves to his temples, trimmed back above his sharp brows and sharper grey eyes. He was scarcely into his sixteenth summer, and already a pair of scars ran down his jawline. “We are yet to lose a battle, and yet still the rebels are driving our army back toward the capital. Explain to me, Alec, how are we to halt their advance by ourselves?” His golden companion fell silent then, and Karth took the moment to slide his steel greathelm over his head, fastening it in place with a leather strap. “And yet, I too feel the call of battle.” At that moment, the thundering sound of hooves became faintly audible above the din and, far to the West, several hundred horsemen in the steely grey of House Balder appeared over a rise. Karth dug his heels into his steed's flanks and wheeled the dappled grey destrier around to face the force arrayed behind him. “Ser Weslen!” he called, drawing his hand-and-a-half sword. “Take your cavalry and head off their reinforcements!” Ser Weslen Gethe, an bannerman of Karth's father and a man rapidly approaching old age, nodded his assent and led three hundred horsemen in a sweeping path around the battle to meet those fresh cavalrymen head-on. This would be Ser Weslen's last war, both he and Karth knew, which was why Karth had granted him such an important task. Meanwhile, he turned to the five hundred men clad in both the black of House Vasquy and the deep sea blue of House Vesa, and raised his sword high into the air as his steed reared. “Men, this war has dragged on for far too long!” he declared, settling his horse back down. “We are all weary, we all want nothing more than to go home, to our women, our children, our homes, but instead we stand loyal to our king!” A cheer rose at that, and Karth felt the rush of adrenaline that giving such a speech produces. “Today, the would-be Usurper has met the main body of our army in open combat, a force led by my father and Ser Alec's. We are not them. You may look upon us and see but boys. But today, we crush this fledgeling uprising. Our goal is not this tiny portion of their army.” He gestured at the battle behind himself with his sword. “We do not ride to the aid of those men we dined with last night. We ride to the aid of our king himself!” His horse reared up once again, and he grinned inside his helmet, enjoying the rush of adrenaline. “Ride with me now! Ride with me to end this war! Ride with me, and by the time this day is through, we shall become legend!”
A mighty roar went up from the men, and Karth wheeled his steed around to lead the gallop across the rolling grassland. They swept past the fringes of the combat being fought on foot, passing on and tracing the path Ser Weslen and his men had travelled by a scarce few minutes before. They thundered across the plains, passing Ser Weslen's vanguard as they finished slaughtering the remaining House Balder horsemen. Karth met the elderly knight's eyes for a moment before racing past him, cresting the rise and finding the largest battle he had ever seen arrayed before him. Ten thousand men in the grey of House Balder crashed against a bulwark of eight thousand in the various colours of those Houses that supported the throne. The black of House Vasquy stood in the centre of the line, flanked by the forest green of House Aretear and the crimson of House Goer. The white of House Harnen - the Royal House - held the flank furthest from Karth and Alec's force, while the orange of House Navai held the near flank. And, just tucked in-between Houses Harnen and Aretear, were the scarce thousand men remaining to House Vesa. Though each House had far more men to call upon than were upon the field of battle, the terrain this close to the capital had forced them to deploy far less than they would have liked, and they had left the remainder of their armies back at the capital in case they failed here.
All this, Karth took in in the few moments between cresting the rise and beginning to charge headlong down the hill toward the rear of the rebel army. When it came, the collision was far more brutal than he had imagined it would be.
Swords, maces, axes and lances slew men all around as the spearhead formation drove itself deep into the army's vulnerable rear, using its sheer momentum to push deep into the heart of the army. And yet, the riders accounted for scarcely half of the casualties the charge caused. Horses kicked, bit and trampled men under their hooves. Bones broke, ribcages collapsed and skulls caved in under iron-shod hooves that crushed anyone who fell, dead or alive. The shock of the assault spread throughout the Balder army, momentarily granting the loyalists the advantage, though the cavalrymen were running out of momentum as the sheer press of bodies slowed their steeds. Snarling, Karth swept down from his horse, his sword making minimal movements, but leaving gory arcs and fountains of blood in its wake. Coming upon a knight of the Balder army, he grasped halfway down his sword's blade with his right hand, using the extra control to drive the tip through the gap between the knight's breastplate and helm.
Wiping the blade clean, he found himself stepping out into an empty space. Berating himself inside for not paying attention to his surroundings, he looked around the ring, seeing both Balder and Vasquy men comprising its inner edge.
And there, at the circle's centre, stood Lord Warren Balder, self-proclaimed King of Valderyn and leader of the rebellion.
Karth's fist tightened upon the hilt of his sword, sweeping it up into a salute.
“Lord Balder!” he bellowed, causing the man to turn to face him. He wore no helm, but a crown of twisted metal. His hair was greying, and his weaselly face bore its fair share of wrinkles. He smiled softly at the sight of the black-clad knight.
“Ser Karth Vasquy, the Sword of the North.” he replied in a surprisingly strong voice for one who looked so frail as he did. “I was wondering whether t'would be you or your father that reached me first.” Karth frowned, but steeled his arm before undoing the strap of his helmet and tugging it off, exposing his pale skin to the warm sunlight. He tossed the helm to one of his father's men on the far side of the circle, who caught the black metal with a sense of reverence. “Yes, you certain have the Vasquy look. And yet, the eyes...” He tailed off, perhaps finally realising his situation. His jaw set, and his voice developed a tone of finality. “Come, child of my enemy. Let us finish this.” He saluted with his sword, an ornate arming sword, before striding slowly towards the black knight. Karth wrapped his right hand around his sword's pommel, raising it to strike.
Down, left, parry right, thrust, parry left.
In spite of Karth's expectations, the Lord of the rebellion lost his grip on his sword and it tumbled into the grass at his feet as the elderly man sank to his knees before the young knight, head bowed and hands shaking.
“So this is how it ends.” he said softly, though without so much as a hint of resentment toward his vanquisher. “You must do that which must be done. Do not hesitate, dear boy.” Karth was taken aback. How could this man accept death so easily?
And yet, if this man could, then he owed it to his foe to be so calm and deliver him a quick death, and so he steeled himself once again. One of the Balder soldiers attempted to charge Karth, but a Vesa knight struck him down from behind before he could get so far as two paces into the circle.
“I, Ser Karth of the Great House Vasquy, Sword of the North and Knight of Valderyn, in the name of our King Roderik, Lord of the Great House Harnen and Protector of the Realm, do sentence you to die.” he said, slowly and loudly, that all around might hear. “Have you any last words, Lord Warren?” The elderly man looked up at him with a small smile.
“Make it a clean cut.” was all he said before pushing his head forward and extending his neck. “Make it quick.” Karth nodded slightly, before raising his sword and letting it fall in one smooth motion. As Lord Warren's head hit the floor, a great cheer went up from the loyalist soldiers, but Karth felt nothing.
Nothing at all.