The Lordly Sellsword

The Lordly Sellsword

He had approached the Opal Court so many times now that it had lost its significance. Nobles and peasants alike were told it was the highest honour for the Shah himself to give them a moment of his time, but Cynewulf had fought for him so many times he had lost count. First there was the rebel merchant-Lord Haznil, then the Free City of Qhariah, then pirates, then more rebels, and just last year I led a portion of His Magnificence's army against the Jhurrkish centaurs. Nasty business that was, eleven of my own men killed, and thousands of the Shah's, our forces dismantled at Dazhar. Cynewulf led a mercenary band of sixty Mournish men, exiles or hopefuls, and his band was renowned for their hammers, of course. Our charge is legendary, and sunglass shatters when our hammers meet it. His band had been in contract with the Shah for the past ten years, but his family had been lodging in the court for generations, to the point where stories about their homeland were confused and piecemeal. Cynewulf longed for a day where he could set foot in Mourne and fight for his true people. And that's why I came here today.


He entered through the grand doors, encrusted with gleaming opals, and waited in line to speak with the glorious Shah, watching as all kinds of men before them got their chance to present their petition. The court was quiet today, thankfully, so he wouldn't have to hear who the Shah was and how important he was every five seconds from the Respectable Herald, the session being more relaxed. A few minutes passed and he was kneeling before the powerful Shah of Bahnis.


"You stand before His Magnificence, the Almighty Shah, of the second Name of Talaz-Azwir, son of the fourth Name of Razadal." the herald announced, speaking the ever so difficult Bahniszan tongue.


"I am eternally honoured to be in the presence of His Magnificence." Cynewulf replied, as was tradition.


The herald turned to the Shah. "Before you stands Kienhuwalf, Captain of the Ironmen, son of Kienhurad." It never ceases to annoy me when I hear their bastardised versions of my family's names. Cynered, Cynehelm, Cyneric, Cenryth: it isn't difficult - I'm able to pronounce their own names perfectly aptly.


"It's is a pleasure, as always, to see you Synewulf." he started. Close enough. "Please, inform me of why you have come before me today."


"Your Magnificence, I have served you for many years; I have always faithfully stood by your arse. I-" He was cut off by the raucous laughter of many of the others in the court. Oh, birieh, not berieh. He regained his composure and corrected himself. "By your side." What a start.


Talaz-Azwir handled the slip-up with his usual kindness, understanding the mistake. "Indeed you have, my dear friend, and despite our misfortune in the steppes, I will forever be thankful for your service; I hope it may continue for the rest of my days."


Cynewulf bowed his head. "Thank you, Your Magnificence. Unfortunately, the topic of my service is what I wish to discuss today: Your Magnificence, I would like for the contract between the throne and the Ironmen to be terminated, and am prepared to relinquish any right to severance payments."


The Shah was shocked. "But my friend, I offer you payments nearly double than those of the free cities, and you still want to defect? What is the meaning of this?"


"Please, Your Magnificence, this is a personal choice, and I would never defect to your enemies. I mean to travel to Mourne to fight with my countrymen against the supposed northern invasion. The War of the Winds, they're calling it, and sailors say the fate of the continent lies in the outcome."


Talaz-Azwir smiled softly. "I've always admired your bravery, Synewulf. However, I trust that you know that the Mournish have never hired mercenaries in living history?"


"I know, but I've discussed it with my men, and we'll offer our services for free if needs be. We want to fight for our kinsmen, not fight for coin." he proclaimed.


"Honourable sellswords, a rare sight." the Shah remarked. "Well, though I would always wish to keep you in my service, the loss of sixty men is never consequential in peacetime, and I will forever owe you for your service. It is for these reasons that I shall give you leave, and my severance payment shall be the gift of Farahzadan, the fourth-largest war dhow in my fleet." He truly is the kindest man in the world.


"I could not possibly accept such a generous offer, Your Magnificence." he replied with due humility.


"It is a gift, friend. Take it, please." the Shah insisted.


He genuflected. "I shall then, Your Grace. Thank you."


The next morning Cynewulf gathered his men and was guided by one of the Shah's seneschals to the docks, where they found the Farahzadan being fitted with the colours of Cynewulf's house: cyan and white, quartered. Supplies were slowly being lugged onto the ship in crates by the dock workers, while his men, thankfully experienced in sailing after the wars against Lord Haznil, prepared the vessel to depart, scurrying about the ship. He found the Dockmaster waiting for him at the end of the pier, speaking with his second-in-command, the reliable Steffan, descended from another house driven from Mourne. Steffan, a tall and burly warrior, had fought with Cynewulf ever since he established the Ironmen, and led the charge alongside him in countless battles. He boasted that he had slain a thousand men, and having fought almost constantly for fifteen years, it could be closer to the truth than many allowed, especially with his proven prowess. The two had been friends since they were boys, their fathers allies in their plots to regain their positions back in Mourne, and they had partaken in the Yaktuzan tradition of becoming blood-brothers, sworn to fight by one another's side until the grave. I intend to do so, a vow is a vow.


The Dockmaster, the short and spindly Azwan ji Elazadar, turned to face him, and approached him with open arms and a wide grin, his shaved head and goatee distinctly marking him from the young boys working at the docks.


"My Lord of Cynewulf!" he said in Mournish, in his thick southern accent. Always a pleasant sound so far south. "It is a joy to see you again, a joy! I set my boys to work the moment I heard of His Magnificence's decree. Although I am distraught at the loss of such a fine ship, we have others, and to send you on such a... noble, yes, noble mission, it gives me more joy than this dhow ever could. If you please, she's yours to command, and ready to leave whenever you should wish."


"It's always a pleasure to see you, Azwan. I must say, I cannot thank you enough for what you've done; my ancestors would be proud to see their colours on such a fine vessel, and to see their son manning it." said Cynewulf.


"It is my pleasure, my Lord of Cynewulf." he replied. "I won't keep you waiting now, my lord. Please, board the ship, and sail home. All good men of Bahnis wish you a safe journey, and a long life."


"Thank you, Azwan. I hope to see you again."


"As do I."


Each exchanging a customary bow, they parted ways. "Come on now, Steffan, let's get going."


The two walked across the deck, checking up on the men and generally inspecting the ship, which was in near-perfect condition.


"We should think of a new name, Captain." suggested Steffan.


"Aye, I've been trying a few in my head ever since I first saw her." he said as his eyes were drawn up the mast, once again sighting his great house's banner. "Returning Baron, Redeemer, Avenger, The Revenge, we could even translate the name and call it Kingsbane. It all depends on how forward I wish to be, I suppose."


Steffan sighed. "Cynewulf, we've spoken about this, your house hasn't ruled its city for over three centuries now. You had best put on a smile, call it Redeemer, and pray to the Forest that King Edward will grant you some of his lands after you fight for him, proving that your house and his can put aside the rivalry." He grabbed Cynewulf by the shoulder. "We have a chance, you and I, to regain our ancestral lands, but if you start going on about some claim to the throne, two things will happen to us: first, you'll be dubbed a false pretender, and we'll be thrown in a dungeon; second, we'll be executed for treason. Is that what you want?"


He's right, as much as it pains me to acknowledge. "No, you're right. If anything, it's best that we tell no one of our heritage, at least until after the war is won."


"If the war is won. Don't get ahead of yourself Cyne. Remember Dazhar? The greater cause can always lose." Steffan urged. One year older than me and he still acts as if he's my father. I suppose there's always a need for the cautious one.


"Redeemer she is, then." Not a bad name by any means.


Entering his quarters, he found a feather bed, a small dining table, luxury silverware, a chest of drawers filled with his smallclothes, and a wardrobe where his plate and mail were being stored, his winged helm perched upon its own shelf. The quarters of the former captain of the Redeemer, little had needed to be changed in order to make them fit for a lord, titular or otherwise. The room was surprisingly small though, only around eight feet wide and eleven feet in length, but still, it had its own privy, which Cynewulf was eternally thankful for. Satisfied, he left the quarters to see the last of the dock workers trickling off of the ship, while his men were gradually beginning to surface after descending below deck to get their rooms in order. Yes, rooms: this dhow is enormous, I'd imagine it's supposed to be manned by two-hundred men, or thereabouts.


He soon saw Steffan himself resurface, and the pair took a commanding position on the quarter deck, behind the wheel, watching the men trickle up and notice them, slowly forming a crowd. Forty-five, so far, by my count. Command came naturally to Cynewulf, and as he stood there, his men eagerly awaiting his words, he felt right at home, whether he was in Mourne, Bahnis, or anywhere else. He didn't even need to think about what he should say, most of the time. You could say, inspiration comes naturally to me. Beside him Steffan stood resolutely, head arced towards the sky, left hand on the hilt of his sword, always careful to have the appearance of being ready for anything. The pair were the co-founders of the company, Captain and Sergeant, and were always eager to present a certain attitude and dynamic to the men when leading them into battle, or when organising them in a moment such as this. I'm the friendly, approachable brother-figure, and he's the firm and reliable father-figure. That's how it's always been, how it needs to be; they need someone to like, and someone to trust.


With the sixtieth man standing before him, Cynewulf nodded to Steffan and began his speech.


"Ironmen, kith and kin, it's my honour, as always, to lead you to war once again." he said with a warm smile. "We were once a petty band, but now, after countless wars, we are the Ironmen! We are the indomitable force of destruction that rides across the steppes! There is no man in Yaktuz who has never heard our name, and either cowered in fear, or cried out in joy and pride! Our hammers are the pride of the world, none may withstand our charge! We fight, we bring iron and blood!"


The men cheered, pumping their fists in the air. "Iron and blood!" they repeated.


"But on this day our hammers call us home, our land calls to us from beyond the deep blue waves." he announced pridefully. "Every one of you either once lived in the Land of Iron, or is descended from a man who did. I see men before me of noble houses, and men descended from stonemasons, men high and low, all standing together in the name of a common cause: to return! Our hearts yearn to ride across the plains, the hills, the valleys, brimming with luscious green grass and youthful springs, which many of you may have never seen." He paused. "And our hammers yearn for northern blood!"


The men cheered once more. "Iron and blood!" they chanted.


"So sail with me today men! Smash the skulls of those who seek to rip away our homeland, and return! Iron and blood men, iron and blood!" he yelled, his men fervently pumping their fists into the air.


"Down with the savages, through iron and blood!" he heard them scream.


"Now sail! Mourne awaits, to battle!" he proclaimed, drawing his sword and pointing it to the sky.


"To battle!" they repeated, every man drawing his sword and raising it to the Owl's domain.


Steffan too held his sword in the air, and gave Cynewulf an approving nod with a warm smile. He smirked, this is what brotherhood feels like; we are on the brink of glory, I can even taste it. Sheathing his sword, he allowed Steffan, his new quartermaster, to take the wheel after his men had heaved the anchor up from the murky depths of the sediment-filled dock water. With that, the sails were dropped, the wind battering against them, and the Redeemer began to race out of port, guided toward the north as the men cheered once more.


Stepping down from the quarter deck, Cynewulf walked to the bow of the ship, feeling the harsh wind rail against his face, droplets of water from broken waves lapping at his face, cooling him down in the early autumn heat. He couldn't help but wonder how he would cope with the colder temperatures in Mourne, he had the blood, of course, and it would have the spring warmth, the seasons being different in the north, but he was used to much greater temperatures than the sailors ever suggested. They always seem to be complaining about the weather, even in summer. It's alarming, but exciting in a way - I can finally live the lives of my ancestors, to a degree. Though he wondered if he would ever live like his ancestors, presiding over a great city, ruling in a mighty keep, commanding respect from every lowborn man, watching them drop to their knee as he rode through the street. I wouldn't intend to rule like that anyway - it's the same as in this company, I would want them to treat me as a friend, as a brother, to feel like their lord is someone they can speak to as a human, not as a superior.


But now was not the time to think about such things, he knew. Now was the time to prepare, mentally and physically, for what was to come. As he watched the individual buildings slowly merge together in the horizon as they rapidly sailed even further from the city, he couldn't help but think what this 'King Edward' was like, and if he'd be approachable. He remembered the odd detail from sailors, but they were often conflicting: some said he was a great warrior who defeated a mighty northern chief, and others said he was a coward who let others do his fighting; some said he was a generous and kind king, others said he cared little for his subjects, and kept to himself. It all spun together in his head to create a bewildering and crooked web of lies. Bloody sailors, they don't spend enough time in their own homes to know what's actually going on. He decided to dismiss these thoughts. I'll find out the kind of man he is if and when I meet him. If anything I'll probably have to negotiate with some lordling anyway rather than the King himself.


Looking back behind him and seeing the dock slowly drift out of view, he was surprised at how long he had stood there with Steffan beside him, pondering all of these possibilities. He looked ahead now, to the north and west, and felt eager as ever for the winds to continue their onslaught. I'm going home, if only father could see me now. Our house returns at last.