The Grey Tower

The two youths knelt in the sunlit entrance hall, scrubbing the marble floor until their hands were wrinkled and their knees ached. “You know this is your fault, Lorenza,” the young man grumbled with a half grin. He toiled in his shirt sleeves, but his fine wool shirt was obviously not servant’s livery. His companion, with her fine features and glossy raven locks was even more of an oddity. Though her hair was caught up in a scarf and her chosen dress wasn’t silk, it was finer than anything most serving girls had ever owned. Her slim fingers seemed more suited for holding a pen or a wine glass than a rag.

The girl, Lorenza, sat back on her heels and wiped sweat from her brow. “How is any of this my fault?” she said with a sniff.

“Well if her ladyship could hold her liquor,” the young man said, stretching and cracking his dark knuckles, “We wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Oh, Master Aurella, he’s such a brute and a ruffian, dragging poor girls off to taverns,” Lorenza said putting her hand to her head as if faint.

Alric rolled his eyes and simply threw his rag at her. “Don’t twist what happened. You bullied me into taking you. Now, toss that back so we can get this thing done.” He wasn’t sure how a girl two years his junior always managed to drag him head first into trouble, but those were the facts.

“Come and get it,” Lorenza said, holding the rag behind her back, eyes flashing with challenge.

Alric lunged for it and she scrambled backwards, smirk fixed in place. Before either of them realized, she sat with her back pressed to the wall with Alric crouched over her. The tips of their noses were almost touching they were so close. Alric thought he could hear her heartbeat, or maybe it was his own. With a start he realized her skirts were trapped under his knee and his hand was clamped around one of her thin wrists. Definitely his own heart then. The blood rushing to his already dark cheeks told that story. He expected her to call out for guards, servants, her father. The scholar’s apprentice, that common boy, dared to lay hands on her.

She didn’t call out, shove him away, or even slap him. Instead, she sat there, biting her lip slightly. Light! that challenge in her eyes. It hadn’t gone away. In fact it had grown stronger. I dare you, it said. Dared him to do what? He leaned in closer. Lorenza’s cheeks flushed bright red, Alric let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, and like that the moment was gone.

“Hey! Aurella, you still with us?”

“Hmm?” Alric grunted, grip shifting on his mock pike. He glanced over at the shorter Cairhienin soldier. He’d become lost in his own memories.

The company had been broken down into four fifty man platoons for today’s exercise.They were two in a formation of fifty men in helmets and breastplates. Each carried a sixteen foot long shaft without a head. It wouldn’t do to poke somebody’s eye out in practice. They had seen a lot of fighting recently and taken their fair share of casualties, so the numbers weren’t exact. Alric’s platoon, 3rd Platoon, stood in ranks of ten, five deep, facing a similarly arrayed 1st Platoon.

“Just asked if you had somebody waiting for you back home. You’re Mayener, right? I heard they’ve got some fine gals down there. Something about all the sun.”

“They’re nice,” Alric said with a noncommittal shrug. “Nobody’s really waiting for me, Darrid,” Alric said, with a small sigh. “We’d better button it up anyway, Sergeant Demoux’s on his way over.”

From their position in the first rank, Alric and his buddy watched the stocky sergeant approaching with slender Lord Lieutenant Darengil in tow. After a quiet conference, the noble officer stepped off to the side and Demoux addressed the platoon. Alric could see a similar exchange happening across the way with 1st Platoon’s leadership.

“Listen up, lads,” he began in his gruff voice, “Gandwin’s boys down there’ve been talking a lotta big talk. Let’s bloody some noses and show ‘em how we do it here in Platoon Three. Huah?”

“HUAH!” They shouted in unison slamming the butts of their pikes into the ground. Finally, an end to the standing around. Alric found himself feeling downright giddy. He’d come a long way since he’d first put on a uniform. Sometimes he thought he couldn’t even recognize the scared boy he’d been then.

As soon as their cheer died down, a high pitched whistle sounded. It was the signal to begin the exercise. “Platoon!” the each Platoon Sergeant called immediately silencing their men, “Ten-hut!” Drummers began to play an anticipatory rhythm. “For-ard, Harch!”

The command sent each block of pikemen stepping off smartly on their left foot, the drums pounding out a steady cadence. Alric counted steps in his head. His heart was beginning to pound, training or no. When they closed within fifty feet of each other, Demoux ordered, “Low-er pikes!” In near perfect unison the first few rows lowered their pikes parallel to the ground. The later two rows kept their pikes angled slightly up.

Forty feet. “Quick time, Harch!” Came the command and the began to close at a cautious trot, the drummers urging them forward. Thirty feet, and the tips of their pikes were overlapping. Alric and his fellows in the first rows did their best to batter aside enemy shafts as they pressed ahead. Twenty feet, and they were almost in lethal range. They shouted curses and insults at their opponents as they pressed forward.

Alric was pressed forward with bodies on three sides. His individual will no longer mattered. Letting out a wordless yell, Alric pushed forward, shoving at his opponents while his allies pushed him from behind. Wood scraped against wood and men grunted and shoved trying to break the enemy formation. The push-of-pike as it was formally known, was often known by its nickname “Bad War.” Even in during training it was brutal. Men shoved against each other trying to force the enemy pikes out of line while stabbing into the opposing mass of men with their own.

“Fifth Rank! For-ard!” Demoux bellowed over the melee. The rear rank, still fresh, lowered their pikes and began to shoulder their way to the front. The drums beat a frantic pattern as each side tried to force the other to submit. Then it was over. First Platoon was bucking. They disentangled themselves, and marched back to their respective sides of the field to do it all over again.



Bruised and battered as they were, the men of 3st Platoon were in good spirits as they took their lunch. They had soundly trounced 1st Platoon and even received a verbal commendation from Captain Trellavier. Alric and Darrid sat together eating bowls of peppered rice and beans in beef broth, drinking offensively hoppy beers, and chatting about nothing in particular. They had doffed their helmets and their pikes were stacked with the rest of their squad’s.

Conversation trailed off as Sergeant Demoux approached. The men didn’t salute or snap to attention. Those sorts of things weren’t done for a sergeant, not even a platoon sergeant. There were respectful nods however, and men did turn to listen respectfully. His eyes lingered on Alric for a moment before he spoke. “Who all of you can read?”

A bit over half of the hands went up, Alric’s among them. A good number for commoners.

“Who all can write?” Half the remaining hands fell. “Well?” Only four hands remained up. The burly sergeant shrugged, “Oh well, then you four come with me.”

Alric shoved down a last bite of stewed rice before grabbing his helmet to follow. Demoux pulled him aside for a moment, “You’ve been doin’ well for yourself, Aurella.”

“Thank you, sir, but what’s going on?”

Motioning him to keep walking, the older man said, “Been losing a lot of good men. An the rest ‘ave been promoted. We need some new sergeants, and you’ve got it in ya, boy.” He turned to face Alric, his tone sincere, “It’ll all work out, just keep working hard.”

Alric kept his own council. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard something like that since he’d been press ganged.

With a grunt, Alric pulled himself onto the roof and collapsed onto his back panting. He’d never been the pinnacle of physical fitness, and trying to climb onto the roof with a wine bottle in his hand hadn’t made things much easier. At least Lorenza was here. After he’d heard she’d come home crying, he had searched all over for her and hadn’t found her. If she wasn’t on the roof, then she wasn’t home. She wore lavender silks and sat with her knees pulled up to her chest and face buried in her arms. Her bare shoulders seemed to glow in the moonlight as they heaved with occasional sobs. Grimacing, Alric sat down next to her, uncorking the bottle. He didn’t say anything, just pressed the bottle into her hand. He’d gotten the bottle off of a friend a year ago. Berrat’s family’s produced some of Mayene’s most sought after vintages. From what the vintner’s son had told him, this wasn’t exactly a cheap bottle. Lorenza was worth it though.

After taking a long swig, Lorenza finally spoke. “Peitro called me a flipskirt,” she said, hoarse voice tinged with anger. The young Lord Peitro’s attempted courtship had gone up in flames when Lorenza finally confronted him about his wandering eyes, and wandering hands. For months, friends, Alric among them, had warned her of the rumors, but she had been won over by his good looks and shy smile. She’d thrown her heart at his feet, but even she couldn’t make excuses anymore when he was caught in bed with Lady Cecilia, by her husband. It was becoming a bit of a scandal, at least among the younger nobility.

“Why? He was the one caught sleeping around,” Alric asked honestly perplexed.

“I don’t know,” she replied with a snarl, “Said I spent too much time with common boys. I was used goods.” She took another long drink. “He was my first, I’d never even.. Not before him!” There was a frantic edge to her voice. Her arm moved as if to throw the bottle, and a wide eyed Alric grabbed her wrist. Gently he took the bottle back before putting an arm around her shoulders.

He didn’t say anything. What was there too say? Peitro was a lout? They both knew that. That he’d warned her a month ago? They knew that too. He could mention that he felt betrayed as well. In the beginning, he’d also been taken in. He’d seemed like a decent sort for a lordling. He had the heart of a poet and the mind of a king. It was more than he expected from most, who only wanted tutors of note for the prestige they brought. He had been funny, charming, and ultimately the sort who would try to besmirch somebody else to cover up his own wrongdoings. Instead, he just sat in silence save for the distant sounds of the ocean and the city at night.

Finally, she spoke up. “I hope Mella’s treating you better than Peitro did me,” she said nuzzling in against his side. Since she sounded calmer, Alric let her take the wine bottle again. It was too pricey to be smashed across the street below.

“Can’t complain,” Alric said, feeling somewhat self conscious. He and the plump little silversmith’s daughter had gotten on fine for the past month. Talking about it felt like rubbing salt in Lorenza’s wounds but she had asked. “Nope,” Alric said, watching the moon play off the ocean, “Can’t complain.”

“Can’t complain at all,” Alric said as he strode along, halberd propped against his shoulder. “Well, maybe a little, Ranen needs new boots and we need a tent patched. I sent in requests for both and silence.” Demoux might have been simply making small talk by asking how he was taking to his new rank, but Alric decided not to let a chance to air issues to the new Company Sergeant pass.

The last few weeks had been a trial of fire of sorts. After taking over 3rd Platoon’s 1st Squad, he hadn’t had time to get his feet under him before the Tairens began to attempt a series of back to pack minor incursions. The stalemate had lasted three years already and Alric didn’t expect this new assault to shift the balance. It didn’t change the fact that they’d spent the last few weeks hustling to battle after battle. Today was such an occasion. An outpost right on the edge of Haddon Mirk had come under attack. Ridgecat company marched to their defence alongside another four hundred foot and one hundred horse under the Damodred banner. It might fall by the time they arrived, but they weren't going to leave it in Tairen hands.

Alric thought he’d been unnaturally lucky so far. He’d yet to have to pay the butcher, even though he’d come close several times. He couldn’t shake the feeling that rug would be pulled out from under them soon and everything would come toppling down. If not for the war effort, at least for his men.

Seeming to sense Alric’s mood, Demoux clapped leather gloved hand against Alric’s shoulder. “You’ll do fine lad,” he said in a gruffly paternal manor. “Trust me, if somebody didn’t think you should a sergeant, I’d have heard by now.”

Alric just nodded, as the older sergeant jogged off to attend to other duties. They should be at the battle within the hour. Hopefully the outpost would still stand by then. There’s wasn’t a large force, but it should turn the tide. He could tell they were getting closer, the steady downward slope of the land as well as the more frequent copses of trees. Studying one of the closer copses of trees, Alric thought he could see movement. Was that a rider?

Yes, it was. He was still far away, but he appeared injured. A scout? Glancing over his shoulder, Alric was glad to see his men looking alert and ready for trouble. “Don’t just focus ahead,” Alric ordered. If they were all too focused on the rider, they would be leaving themselves open to attack from behind. Some of Lord Laiten’s cavalry seemed to be riding forward to meet the man. No halt had been called though. The entire situation left Alric feeling jittery. He stepped into the formation, taking a place next to Brand and craned around hoping to find Captain Trellavier.

“Blood and bloody ashes,” he muttered. The man was nowhere to be seen. He did his best to put on a calm front. “Look alive boys,” he said in a loud voice, “My gut tells me we’ll be seeing fighting sooner than later.”

Not long after the words had left his mouth when a shout went up, “Riders!”

Alric thought he could count at least three hundred riders thundering out of the treeline. Had they been chasing the scout? Laiten’s men clashed with them quickly but didn’t stay to to slug it out. They withdrew leaving several riderless horses and motionless lumps in the grass.

“Square!” the call was picked up and echoed until it reached Alric who echoed it inturn. With practiced steps, the company spread out into a box, with outward facing pikes, each side fifteen men across and five deep. Alric’s 3rd Platoon found themselves manning the front left flank of the formation. The first ranks planted the butts of their pikes, taking a wide stance, with their right boots backstopping the weapon, they learned their pikes forward and lowered their centers making a nearly immovable barrier. With his Halberd, Alric joined the second rank, weapons poised to stab over the heads of the first.

They couldn’t have assumed their formation any quicker. Laiten’s men were trying to flee behind the screen of pikes and arrows were already beginning fall amongst the foot. “Steady!” Alric called as arrows whizzed overhead or embed themselves in the ground in front of them. Then the Tairen’s were upon them. First ranks manned horse bows and quickly peeled away as they fired revealing a row of lancers. Alric heard a scream as Bared went down clutching at an arrow protruding from his throat. He shoved down the grief. Mourn later, fight now.

“Hold!” It was Lieutenant Darengil this time.

Another arrow zipped past Alric’s cheek catching Geoff in the shoulder. Alric couldn’t do anything to help them, just make sure they didn’t break. He gritted his teeth in the face of the thundering horsemen. “Ridgecats, do or die!” Alric yelled the company motto like a talisman against evil, a ward against death. No, They would be death.

The lancer’s charge carried them towards the thicket of pikes. They hadn’t been broken by the archers and their moral still held. It was Ridgecat Company’s time to do or die. Many of the war trained mounts balked at charging head first into the metal shaft heads and tried to turn away at the last minute. This caused a pile up behind them. Those who didn’t stop were impaled against the first rank’s pikes. Many rider’s were thrown from their saddles as their charges came to abrupt halts. Alric felt a grim sort of mirth as a screaming Tairen sailed over head.
Charges and shouts went up, Alric’s among them, as the horsemen began to back off, approaching more slowly. And then it was time for the second and third rank’s grim tasks. Holding his halberd at shoulder height, Alric jabbed out at horse and man alike. He managed to hook a Tairen’s ornately decorated breastplate with the spike on the weapon’s back. He have a heave and managed to drag the man from his saddle. Darrid’s pike put a quick end to the man.

A brief eternity later, the horsemen were retreating back across the open field. Alric panted as he leaned on his pike and the men let out a ragged cheer. After he caught his breath, he began issuing orders. “Kit, Dannel, get the wounded to the center. Rest of you sound off and prepare for another wave.”

He listened as his men called out their names and their conditions. Out of ten men, Bared was still the only dead. Thankfully? That sounded wrong, but yes, there were only ten in his squad, any number of deaths was a lot. There were wounded though. Geoff could walk but he wouldn’t be holding a pike anytime soon, and Fedwin would need to be carried. Sometimes it was hard to remember how he, a scholar’s apprentice, had ended up in this mess.