[COLOR=sky blue]Prologue[/COLOR]
The sun sat on the eastern horizon, a great orange thing, obscured by morning haze. Its subdued rays flooded the Mithland plains, washing over a dew covered forest of tents. The morning air was crisp and a little cool, and as the men who meandered about the camp exhaled, short-lived steam climbed from their mouths and noses.
In the center of this camp sat a large ostentatious pavillion, complete with streamers and three peaks. It was striped in the red and silver of House Beaumont, the ruling family in Mithland. Before it stood a tall Mithlander in the proud scale and tunic of a General. His face was craggy, filled with folds that came not from fat; he was a slim man. His men often joked, well out of earshot, that it was his grumpy demeanour. General Hyll Jorem was a surly man, generally in mean spirits and never looking happy. The captains under him often said that it was lucky the man had been highborn, because his imperious stares and ceaseless scowling had done him no good in the social world of the aristocracy. No, Jorem had to content himself for most of his life living as an emasculated blowhard, a military man who lived in peacetime, a true misfit. Sadly, he had been only a youth during the Succession, and those tribulations themselves ended much too quickly. This new goblin menace, however... right in the midst of Stormgale, had put him back in the thick of things, where he could be useful once more.
Now he was flanked by two captains, young Mithlander men who possessed a fine mix of both brains and brawn. The three of them stared at the great map before them, spreading across the low wooden table, dogged and covered with tears and rents. It was here that they coordinated their plans, devised feints and supply lines and pincer attacks.
Cormer gestured to a hilly area that they knew lay to the north. "My scouts here report movement," he said, biting his lip. "It is fair to say that there is a nest, more like than not, here near the Gash. If we come upon them from the west and south, we can push them towards the coast. Push them into the Elvinmere, crush them there."
Jorem nodded, grunting in the affirmative. "Yeh, very good. Caught between hammer and anvil." He turned to the last man. "Renard, what say you?"
The captain nodded enthusiastically. "An excellent plan, Captain Cormer. It is very good..." he paused as another joined them. "Ah, Hawkes," Renard ventured instead, perhaps a little too brightly. His eyes darted from the newcomer to the General, whose scowl deepened.
Hawkes did not wear the fabulous, flamboyant clothes of the others. In fact, he had the tanned face of a farmer and the simple, drab clothes to match. The thing that arrested people's attention to him were his eyes, large and intense. Their colour was undecided, shifting from green to blue to grey as he turned to take them all in. Wavy black hair and an curt unsmiling mouth bordered them on top and below, while pointed ears that marked him as one of the Mulanan, the mixture of Man and Aelv, bordered them from the sides.
Jorem had no love for the Northlander. "What?" The question was more a belch.
Hawkes stared at him a moment longer, drinking him in with his eyes. Jorem was unsettled by that piercing stare. the look of a hunter. Carefully, Hawkes stepped forward, staring down at the map. "How will you get the goblins out of their nest?" he asked.
Jorem stared at the man before him as if he were a dullard. "How? The same way we've gotten the rest! Smoke them out, slaughter them. This is not that hard, uh? Even for you, yeh?"
Hawkes ignored the insult. "We came across some very shallow nests, ones where the goblins had begun to advance. From all accounts, these burrows have been here much longer. The goblins have had time, time to plan. And with this army here tromping about, they must know we're coming."
Jorem waved his hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter. It will be Mithlander steel against a few rabid under-men."
"Aren't you concerned with the rapid expansion of the goblins? Don't you think that something is amok? Five years ago a goblin in these parts was unheard of... and now we have nest after nest?"
"They rut like rabbits, all know that," Renard replied defensively. But Cormer didn't look as convinced.
"Something must be causing it, something we are unaware of," Hawkes went on, oblivious. "And we shouldn't act without this information. I think we should..."
"Enough!" thundered the General, livid. All eyes were on him. Even the passing soldiers had stopped in their tracks to see what the commotion was. "You serve your king, do you not you?" Jorem knew, in fact, that King Everest was close friends with this vagrant peasant soldier. Hawkes nodded. "Then you will obey his Generals. I won't remind you that you and your band were placed under my command." Defeated, Hawkes nodded again. The general swelled with a certain arrogant pride at himself. Before he could doubt himself, he turned to his captains.
"Tell the men to strike the tents and prepare for a march. We march at noon."
The sun sat on the eastern horizon, a great orange thing, obscured by morning haze. Its subdued rays flooded the Mithland plains, washing over a dew covered forest of tents. The morning air was crisp and a little cool, and as the men who meandered about the camp exhaled, short-lived steam climbed from their mouths and noses.
In the center of this camp sat a large ostentatious pavillion, complete with streamers and three peaks. It was striped in the red and silver of House Beaumont, the ruling family in Mithland. Before it stood a tall Mithlander in the proud scale and tunic of a General. His face was craggy, filled with folds that came not from fat; he was a slim man. His men often joked, well out of earshot, that it was his grumpy demeanour. General Hyll Jorem was a surly man, generally in mean spirits and never looking happy. The captains under him often said that it was lucky the man had been highborn, because his imperious stares and ceaseless scowling had done him no good in the social world of the aristocracy. No, Jorem had to content himself for most of his life living as an emasculated blowhard, a military man who lived in peacetime, a true misfit. Sadly, he had been only a youth during the Succession, and those tribulations themselves ended much too quickly. This new goblin menace, however... right in the midst of Stormgale, had put him back in the thick of things, where he could be useful once more.
Now he was flanked by two captains, young Mithlander men who possessed a fine mix of both brains and brawn. The three of them stared at the great map before them, spreading across the low wooden table, dogged and covered with tears and rents. It was here that they coordinated their plans, devised feints and supply lines and pincer attacks.
Cormer gestured to a hilly area that they knew lay to the north. "My scouts here report movement," he said, biting his lip. "It is fair to say that there is a nest, more like than not, here near the Gash. If we come upon them from the west and south, we can push them towards the coast. Push them into the Elvinmere, crush them there."
Jorem nodded, grunting in the affirmative. "Yeh, very good. Caught between hammer and anvil." He turned to the last man. "Renard, what say you?"
The captain nodded enthusiastically. "An excellent plan, Captain Cormer. It is very good..." he paused as another joined them. "Ah, Hawkes," Renard ventured instead, perhaps a little too brightly. His eyes darted from the newcomer to the General, whose scowl deepened.
Hawkes did not wear the fabulous, flamboyant clothes of the others. In fact, he had the tanned face of a farmer and the simple, drab clothes to match. The thing that arrested people's attention to him were his eyes, large and intense. Their colour was undecided, shifting from green to blue to grey as he turned to take them all in. Wavy black hair and an curt unsmiling mouth bordered them on top and below, while pointed ears that marked him as one of the Mulanan, the mixture of Man and Aelv, bordered them from the sides.
Jorem had no love for the Northlander. "What?" The question was more a belch.
Hawkes stared at him a moment longer, drinking him in with his eyes. Jorem was unsettled by that piercing stare. the look of a hunter. Carefully, Hawkes stepped forward, staring down at the map. "How will you get the goblins out of their nest?" he asked.
Jorem stared at the man before him as if he were a dullard. "How? The same way we've gotten the rest! Smoke them out, slaughter them. This is not that hard, uh? Even for you, yeh?"
Hawkes ignored the insult. "We came across some very shallow nests, ones where the goblins had begun to advance. From all accounts, these burrows have been here much longer. The goblins have had time, time to plan. And with this army here tromping about, they must know we're coming."
Jorem waved his hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter. It will be Mithlander steel against a few rabid under-men."
"Aren't you concerned with the rapid expansion of the goblins? Don't you think that something is amok? Five years ago a goblin in these parts was unheard of... and now we have nest after nest?"
"They rut like rabbits, all know that," Renard replied defensively. But Cormer didn't look as convinced.
"Something must be causing it, something we are unaware of," Hawkes went on, oblivious. "And we shouldn't act without this information. I think we should..."
"Enough!" thundered the General, livid. All eyes were on him. Even the passing soldiers had stopped in their tracks to see what the commotion was. "You serve your king, do you not you?" Jorem knew, in fact, that King Everest was close friends with this vagrant peasant soldier. Hawkes nodded. "Then you will obey his Generals. I won't remind you that you and your band were placed under my command." Defeated, Hawkes nodded again. The general swelled with a certain arrogant pride at himself. Before he could doubt himself, he turned to his captains.
"Tell the men to strike the tents and prepare for a march. We march at noon."
