My Legendary General System
Volume 1 – Lessons in Blood
Chapter 1 – The Siege of Bolrif
The enemy was at the gates. They were already here, already armed, already dangerous. They'd heard about the march via crow just the day before. How had they travelled such a distance already? It was midwinter – the Black Mountains were meant to be impassable.
An army of five thousand stood at their gates – an impossible number. To take that many men through the mountains after the winter snows had set in, it was an impossible feat, a mad feat. And yet he'd done it… He'd done it. That man, that terrible man, the one they called Oliver Patrick, he'd done the impossible once more, and here he was, at their gates.
"He's come for vengeance!" The villagers had whispered. Even amongst the Yarmdon, tales of Oliver's victories crept over their snowy lands like a bad smell. The boy had only just entered his twenty-first year, and already some were calling him the Greatest General to ever live.
They'd clashed five years earlier, when a raiding party composed of Yarmdon elite had attacked his village of Solgrim. The very best their country had to offer. Terrible men. Gorm, the Bear, their great leader, was slain amongst the rest.
Jok had fallen there too – a promising strategist, and Vol's own brother. It was Oliver who took his head. Oliver, who, as a mere fifteen-year-old boy, had overcome a foe that had achieved Varshan's third blessing. It was another impossibility – a long line of impossibilities in Oliver's already short career.
He would conquer the world, that was what they whispered of him. He bore a noble name now, but it was not always so. News had been unearthed of his time as a slave. Of the period he spent under the title of Beam. Of his days of training under the Master Swordsman Dominus Patrick.
Some called him the second coming of Arthur. Vol knew him by a different name: enemy.
At fifteen himself – the very age that Beam had first taken up sword in his first battle, before he had earned the noble name Patrick – he stood armed at the gates of the city, his axe hanging by his side, thirsty for blood.
Snow whipped through the air – the winds were strong.
Five hundred Yarmdon men – giants, in the eyes of their enemies – stood with Vol. Shields, axes, spears and winter furs. Their equipment did not match that of their enemies. It was not polished to a shine that caught the white light of the sun whenever it crept through the clouds – but it was enough. It had always been enough. Their people were a hardy folk. They were raiders. Warriors. Brawlers. This was their turf.
Besides – they had something far more important in the battle than mere polished weaponry. They had a high wall, and they had wooden city gates. They stretched up taller than any man, five times taller than the shorter Stormfront men. A solid wall of good stone, protecting the trading town of Bolrif.
Shouts rang out, as the men prepared their defence. The archers were already lined up on the wall. A few arrows were loosed, warning off the Stormfront army before they could get into range. The fools did not seem to realize that the battle had not begun yet. It was Oliver that would get the privilege of delivering that command, and it was Oliver that Vol looked for.
He stood far enough back from the wall that he could catch sight of the steep mountain hills that rose up beyond it, covered in snow, and recently felled fur trees.
There, upon it, was the subject of five years of training, five years of fantasy and determination. Upon a white horse, there sat him: the enemy that Vol had named all that time ago.
No farther, no true mother – only his brother, Jok, who had shown him the axe. That was the greatest gift that a man could proffer.
Vol knew what he was, from the moment he learned to think. He'd heard the tales of raiders, bringing back their spoils, slaughtering villagers, doing terrible deeds. He knew of no better way of describing himself – he was a raider, and this year would be the year of his first raid.
He would not die now, he would not, even if he was penned in this city with the others, he knew he would not die. Varsharn, Goddess of War, she watched over him. He could feel her gaze on the back of his neck. The anticipation of the battle made his hands sweat on the wooden shaft of his axe. He'd wanted bigger – a battleaxe, like Gorm's, but even though he was a giant youth for his age, he still lacked the strength to properly take advantage of a weapon of that magnitude.
The men continued to call out orders, shouts. The enemies of the Yarmdon dismissed them as an unorganized and unruly people. That was only true to a degree. They had organization, but their rules were simpler than the rest: the strong ruled. The strong took command.
If a man wanted to raise his voice in leadership – as a handful of them did now, bellowing against the wind, their giant beards catching fistfuls of snow – then they could. Some men might even listen. But it was the axe that won loyalty amongst the Yarmdon. The speeches that they attempted now, Vol knew they would do nothing. Loyalties not bought before the battle would not be bought now.
For him, he had no loyalties.