Duke Garr Terrath was not a soft man. Not very tall, but with shoulders as wide as Markus's own, he stood straight-backed, clad in armor scratched and scarred, marks of battles endured over his long years.
As Markus approached, he felt something thrumming within him and the man turned to lock eyes, surely feeling the same. They were both Grand Knights, and their status as such was immediately made known to each other.
"Sir Nabora, I'm glad we've finally had a chance to meet." The aged man beat a large, gauntleted fist against his own chest in greetings and Markus followed suit. "I was just negotiating with Lady Faucon." He said.
"There is nothing to negotiate about it. We've taken on as much as we can already, those left are too inexperienced to do any good. There is such a thing as worse than useless, Terrath."
Of the two unarmored individuals by the Duke's side, the woman, clothed in a long and loose white robe, nodded along with Julia's words, silently agreeing. The other, robed in tight dark red robes and wraps, simply eyed Markus up and down.
By the small, gem-shaped marks on their foreheads colored like their robes, Markus knew them as Keepers, followers of Okmes, the God of Wisdom. Of the six paths the children of the gods left for humanity, Markus only knew details of the first and third, respectively the path of the Speaker, and the path of the Knight. As for the fourth path, He knew little more of Keepers than any other man.
They gathered and stored knowledge within the Cathedral of Tomes, and often sent White Keepers to act as advisors for powerful men and women all across the chosen lands. What he didn't know, was why the man robed in red gave him the feeling of a fighter.
He could tell the man was well trained, but he felt none of the resonance between Knights. He had heard it once said that Keepers practiced the fist like one would a weapon, but he'd never put much stock in that story.
Whatever the case, he was a dangerous man to be sure.
"Why don't we discuss this inside, let the men enjoy their meals in peace," Markus said. A few of those nearby had stopped or slowed their eating as they considered the group of leaders here, straining to listen in, or trying too hard to prove they weren't.
"A good idea." The white keeper said. "I am Sarenthie Deladohr, Keeper of the White, and this is Hiroth Erun, a brother of the Red."
Markus gave a warrior's greeting, fist over heart, and Hiroth eyed Marku's stature, speaking in a very direct and blunt voice. "Are you a Northman, Markus Nabora?"
"My mother was a river trader from Yanheim. I've never been there myself." He had been taken for a Northman more times than he'd like to count, given his tall stature and wide shoulders, features common in Yanheim.
"I see…"
With a glance at the Red, Sarenthie turned to Duke Terrath who spoke once more. "Well then, let's leave these men to their meal and find someplace quiet to talk.
****
The 'negotiation' lasted a fruitless hour, Julia no longer willing to give way and Markus reinforcing her standpoint. Thankfully, the white keeper seemed to agree and helped talk down the duke who, despite his heroic stature, was very nervous indeed.
After leaving the large tent, Sarenthie fell back a few paces behind the Duke to speak with Hiroth in a low, soft voice. "So, did you find what you were looking for?"
"He has the blood of the First Men, and he certainly looks the part, but I've been mistaken before." He had opted for the assignment of protecting Saren, his sister in White, solely to speak with the man known as the Unkillable Knight. He had done just that, but whether he achieved anything, he was not sure.
Sarenthie shook her head slowly. "And I'm sure you will be mistaken again. Either way, you have time enough to find out. I won't return to the Cathedral until the battle is done."
****
Time passed within the camps south of The Dragon Gate. Technically they were camped within the borders of Hasshan, the enemy from which they awaited attack, and yet the weeks that passed were unbearably quiet.
Every day either Markus or Julia would spare some time to train Quinn, ensuring the squire got used to his newfound power before he really needed it. At other times, Markus would inspect the troops, run drills, get to know the sergeants, and ensure everything and everyone was in order.
One night, after sharing drinks with his men and throwing about any sergeant that thought to challenge him, Markus' head hit his pillow hard as he collapsed in his bed, ending the night with a rapidly fading consciousness.
In deep sleep, he had that dream again. The one that always haunted him.
He was wandering lost in an empty plain, fog obscuring his vision. At times it seemed familiar, long grass dyed red, golden light peeking through the fog. Like every other time he'd had this dream, unease washed through his mind in waves, battling the contentment he felt from this place. He felt nostalgic, like he was home, but at the same time felt nervous. Was there something he was forgetting?
'*@#k(s…'
Something strange, like a sound but not a sound called out to him.
'Who was that? What was that?'
Again and again, it called out to him, not the same he realized, just as he did every time. There were different… voices wasn't quite the word… different origins to the intents.
Six of them. Of that he was sure.
'What are you saying? What do you want?!' His unease grew as the intents that were not quite voices became more prominent and more obscure.
'What am I supposed to be doing?' He wasn't sure why he said that, but it felt right. That was the source of his unease, he was forgetting to do something. But what?
"Swear!"
Markus woke with a start as the word overlapped a long, drawn-out noise, deep like a bellow that resounded throughout the camp. His back was drenched in sweat and his breathing was ragged. He must have had a nightmare again.
Once more the long bellowing resounded throughout the camp, and Markus recognized it at last: A horn! An uneasy foreboding crept up from the back of his mind as it did every morning, but he had no time to dispel it, no time to waste on meditation.
"To arms! Ready yourselves!" He heard shouted outside.
No time to waste, he shot to his feet in an instant. Grabbing a shirt in one hand, Markus ran out of the tent and grabbed a man by the shoulder as he tried to move past, pulling him close. "Report!"
"Don't know sir, a scout came in a minute ago, don't see them yet."
He let go of the man who quickly ran off, and entered his tent once more. 'A scout's report? If the horn's gone off, they're coming, but I have time.'
Making his way to his armor, he started donning what he could alone, as he waited for Quinn. The boy wasn't in the tent, but he'd be here soon.
Sure enough, the squire was there to help with his armor in just a moment, and not long after, the two were storming out of the tent with purpose.
Men moved in all directions, gathering around their immediate superiors as they finished wearing their armors. It was chaotic, too chaotic for their usual standards.
In his mind, Markus saw the image of a beautiful plain of grass dyed crimson, dawn light peeking over the horizon to fill him with power; Power that filled his voice in that same moment.
"Cavalry of the Crimson Company, gather on the horse lines and await your Lieutenants!"
Louder than the horn, his voice echoed throughout the camp, followed soon after by another. "Infantry! Gather south of the camp in formation and await my arrival!" Don's voice.
Another rose shortly after, Julia's voice, and then Orson's a moment later.
"Come on." He growled as Quinn followed him to the horses. Tens of men, camp members that were not warriors, moved frantically calming the many horses. A bit further from most, Markus' own steed, Strider thrashed about, dark hooves trampling at everything while it snapped at any that approached. By comparison, Quinn's mare waited calmly, tail swishing about.
Calming Strider as best he could—which was not saying a lot—he pulled himself onto its saddle and stepped out into the open ground nearby as men flocked to their location, his eyes trained on the south. The Crimson were the southernmost camp, and from here Markus could make out movement in the distance. Not a charge, not yet, just a consistent march.
'I knew it. No wonder the skirmishes had stopped, the army is here.'
"Lieutenant! The men've gathered." Sergeant Bryant, the stocky man with a full beard reported to his side a long moment later.
"Good. Sargent Bryant, you and your men will stay by my side at the front." Having Strider take a few steps out from the ranks, he turned to face his men, some still pulling themselves astride saddles or securing the last of their armor, and restrained a frown. 'Slower than they should be, not as alert as I'd like.'
"Listen up! You've all willingly joined the Crimson, so you should know what that entails. We are free from the Colonel's command because we are the best, but with that freedom comes expectation. We are the first blade of an army, the spearhead dyed red. We will ride out first and engage the enemy formations at their hardest. Forget who you are, forget why you came here, you are one piece of a whole now. Listen to your commanders and perform your duty, think of nothing else, and when this is over, through a baptism of Hasshan blood you will be Crimson in truth!
"Grip your arms, became steel in your saddles, and show me your metal! We are the spear!"
The lance in his right hand shot upwards to face the sky as he shouted, and the men returned the gesture in kind.
"We are the spear!"
The horn sounded once more, deep and drawn out as if to highlight their fighting spirit as Markus turned southward again.
"Charge!" He roared as metal hooves tore the earth and Strider threw itself towards the pending battle. Roars and shouts echoed behind him as the Heavy Cavalry of the Crimson Company made its move, and behind them, General Terrath's Colonel lead the other free companies in pursuit.
The now not so distant Hasshan army gained speed, their own forces charging forth as Markus lowered his body and eyed their ranks.
'This battle cannot happen close to the camps.' The strategy Duke Terrath had dictated to Julia and he surfaced in his mind as he rode. The wall of Stonejaw looked impressive, but it was still ill-equipped to defend against an army, and there were laborers and civilians just beyond. The first clash would have to happen in the fields to the south.
The ground became increasingly dry as he rode, and hot morning air buffeted his eyes behind the visor of his helmet, but in his mind, he pictured the grassy plain dyed red—his Gallery of War—and tranquility came as it always did. Only… there was something else. A nagging, ominous feeling in the back of his mind.
'Damn it' He cursed inwardly. That feeling was an old one, something he felt every time he woke from one of those nightmares he could not remember. He needed time and meditation to dispel it, but at the moment he had neither.
Distant horns sounded alongside deep drums from atop the colossal warbeasts of the Hasshan, and their charge began in earnest, roars and cheers rivaling their own accompanying the sound of hooves shaking the earth.
"For the Crimson!"
"For the Crimson!" His men echoed.
The sound of cavalry clashing was a unique one, unlike anything else Markus knew. The sudden jarring shout of metal on metal blended with the spirit and pain of the front rows, and the neighing horses that somehow sounded twisted to his ears.
His lance tip found its way to an enemy's breastplate even as another swept by the side of his head. The man was knocked from his steed, his armor caving slightly as Markus' lance pushed onwards, taking the head of another man through his visor.
A splash of gore marked the end of his weapon—the first of many—and he directed his steed in a leftward turn. Men followed in his wake, turning with him for an arching trajectory as they sliced through enemy ranks like a large, curved blade.
Something hot splattered over his left, and Markus knew one of his men had died by an arrow, but he rode on, sure that far more were dying behind. The way to save them was not to worry or focus on their safety, but to ensure the cleanest victory he could.