Prologue – Long Live the Kings (Working Title)

History Lost to Time

SJ Shoemaker
Word Count: 3751
2/7/2023

Sunrays struggled ineffectually to journey over the horizon and through prevailing grey clouds. It had been a dark night and promised to be an even darker day. Gerlach shifted in his saddle. His joints were made stiff by the long journey. As much as he hated to admit the reality, his age was beginning to make itself known in more visible ways each day. Retirement would approach one day, sooner than later. Gerlach rolled his shoulders, one after the other. For this battle, he would be spry and quick to react. For this battle, he would be in his prime once more. If everything went well, this could be the last battle Rheicona would ever see.

“Gerlach,” the boy excitedly urged his horse forward and maneuvered beside the general. Not a boy, Gerlach reminded himself. Not any longer. He had grown into a man. “Did you see? The towers on the horizon.”

“Yes, Birdie.” A very young man. “We’ve arrived at Turnlare. Are you sure you’re ready?”

“They need me to be,” the young man motioned behind, toward the army which followed in single file along the narrow road.

“And I need you not to push yourself.”

“I am ready, Gerlach,” he assured. “And you will be by my side?”

“Until the bitter end, my Bir–”

“General,” the young man cleared his throat, straightening his back and lifting his chin, as was his training. “You will address me properly in front of the men.” His facade fell momentarily, and the corners of his mouth turned upward.

“My apologies, Sigeberht, dear king,” Gerlach chuckled at the display. He offered a slight bow of his head in faux reverence. Then he glanced toward the horizon once more.

The city was large and built with heavy towers of stone. It benefited from its location along the main road out of the capital, made fat from the bountiful treasures that once flowed to and from the palace. Stream of wealth that had long since run dry over the nearly three decades since the death of King Alaric at the hands of the ancient plague, may his name be praised and his kingdom forever thrive. Turnlare was a husk of what it once was financially, but architecture always trails reality by half a century.

It would have been a wonderful place to set up a life of ease. Beautiful views, half a day’s ride to a major port, and the largest fort in the kingdom blocking the only road in and out. The people here knew nothing of the dangers and warring which consumed Rheicona. They wouldn’t have even the most rudimentary defenses if that fort suddenly fell. Gerlach smiled at the thought. He felt younger already.

“Do you think he’s really in there?”

“Your aunt still lives within the city?”

“Yes, right over—”

“–-then yes. And, if not, word will be sent the moment we attack. You’ll meet that pretender to the throne face-to-face before the day is out.”

Gerlach raised a hand high into the air, causing the procession to halt. He and his ward shared a nod.

“It’s time?”

“Yes, my king.”

They parted with a final, professional clasping of arms. Gerlach would have hugged the young boy—young man—but appearances were important. The general let out a whistle, and the army of purple cloaks and tunics cleared the road. Sigeberht turned his horse and rushed by them all, kicking up dust as he went. Gerlach rushed to the side of the road and began doffing his armor. Pauldrons, then Gauntlets, then the Skirt and the Breastplate. He felt naked as layer after layer of protective armor was peeled away. He couldn’t afford any mistakes this time. Age and slow reactions could not be factors in this battle. A young soldier approached with a ragged tunic and torn cloak, Gerlach’s disguise. They were dull brown in color and well worn, complete with authentic smell. Each rip and tear was strategically placed to reveal as much skin as possible without showing Gerlach numerous battle scars. He could not look remotely like a soldier.

Another young soldier—perhaps nineteen with rosy cheeks and no jawline—approached with a pouch of ash to rub into the general’s hair and age him. But a short glance later, he said, “Oh! Someone’s already got your hair.”

Gerlach chased the boy away with a handful of mumbled curses and a kick of dirt just as a horse and cart pulled forward. It was Sigeberht who drove. He pulled on the reins of the elderly horse until the cart came to a halt. He hopped out of the box seat and down, giving Gerlach a once over as he did so.

“You look terrible, General,” he laughed. “I can hardly recognize you.”

“Too much ash?” Gerlach rolled his eyes.

“It’ll do. Just keep those gates open. We’ll be behind you.”

Then, after a moment of hesitation, he threw his young arms around the general’s broad shoulders. Gerlach embraced the young man with all his might. A hug that lasted forever and ended too soon. Afterward, he waited through the awkward professional goodbye that followed and then a moment more. Finally, when Sigeberht was out of earshot, Gerlach grabbed the arm of the nearest soldier.

“What do they call you, boy?” he barked.

“I am Conrad, sir. Of Gorzona.”

“You will stay by the king’s side, Conrad of Gorzona. Do you hear me? You will fight with the bravery of Gudtlieb and more. And you will die before that kid gets a scratch on him, or I will gut you with my bare hands, Conrad of Gorzona.”

“Yes, sir,” he gulped. “I swear it, sir.”

Satisfied, Gerlach shoved the boy with great force. It took him several large, uneven steps to regain his balance. Afterward, he rushed off toward their king.

“Gerlach, stop harassing the men. Let’s go.”

Hartwin sat in the box seat, waving the general forward. He was a strong man, in his prime. His muscular arms bore few enough scars they wouldn’t give away his occupation too quickly. And being Gerlach’s young cousin, he shared grey-blue eyes with the general. He’d make a convincing son for their short performance. Gerlach heaved himself into the driver’s seat. He took extra care not to let out a grunt as he did so. The act had already begun.

With a snap of the reins, the cart began to move. The fort awaited. Forts, actually. The intimidating structure was, in fact, two in one. Built parallel to one another, with only enough room for the main road in between, and connecting walls and gates on the eastern and western ends. The exterior wall of sharpened logs disguised the massive stone blocks within, hauled all the way from the Eekren quarry. A well-prepared group could withstand any assault thrown at them with defenses like that and an army of nearly 300 capable of being housed within. That was why their plan demanded surprise.

“Reassure me, Hartwin.”

“Be assured,” the large man laughed hardily.

“Hartwin.”

“It looks intimidating, General, but our spy tells us they hardly keep it occupied. Fifteen men. Twenty at most.”

“They’ll let us in without question?”

“Right, can’t stop citizens from going home, can they?”

“I’m asking the questions.”

“They’ll make a big show of checking our cargo and then let us on our way.”

“And that’s when we strike,” Gerlach rolled his shoulders. Stress was making him too tense.

“They station everyone along the internal walls for appearance’s sake, but no one pays attention to anything below. This will be a trivial assault.”

“We ride through the gate with our dozen barrels of wine,” Gerlach gestured toward their cart, but his glance stopped him mid-sentence. “Why are there only 4 barrels, Hartwin.”

“She’s an old horse. She couldn’t carry as much weight as we planned.”

“How many of them are full.”

Hartwin placed a meaty hand on Gerlach’s shoulder. “Do you really want to know?”

The general’s face felt immediately red with rage. “We can’t take a fort by ourselves!”

“We just have to get through the gate and up the stairs before they blockade it. We’ll be fine from then on.”

“Are you insane? We can’t take 20 men.”

“Then let’s say fifteen. And one of them is ours. Five each, easy.” 

“We have no armor, no weapons.”

“It’s a fort. There will be plenty lying around.”

Before he could say anything more, he felt Hartwin’s sharp elbow in his ribs.

“Take a breath, old man,” Hartwin said with a nod toward the gate now directly before them.

There was no time to change plans now. Two guards waited on either side of the gate. They bore spears and wore the pretender’s bright yellow on their gambesons. The cart passed within the gates, and the guards followed close behind.

“State your purpose,” a third man shouted from before them. He was helmetless, with messy black hair that covered his ears. And his armor looked pristine, like it had never taken a single sword strike.

“Just passing through,” Hartwin explained. He put on a bad northern accent, forming each syllable a beat too long between curled lips. With head lowered, he attempted to look as pitiful as someone that large could. It was not convincing. “My father and I hoped to sell our wines at the capital, but the war seems to have sobered the kingdom, it seems.”

Gerlach winced at the redundancy. He was overselling their uneducated roles.

The curly-haired guard looked Gerlach up and down. “Where are you headed, then?”

Gerlach answered in a slight accent—hopefully not too slight. “Dierlo, sir. My cousin lives there.”

The two guards behind had closed the gap and now stood inches from the back of the cart.

“That’s nearly a week by cart. Perhaps we can save you the journey,” the guard grinned.

This was cue enough for the back two. They were in the cart in moments and clumsily maneuvered the barrel to the ground.

“No, you can’t–” Hartwin didn’t even get a foot off the cart, and black-hair had a sword to his throat.

“Not a move, old man, or that’ll be the last you ever see your boy.”

The group silently watched on as the two guards used their spears as makeshift prybars. But before they managed to work off the barrel lid, a bell rang out from the nearby tower, which could only mean one thing: Enemy attack. Hartwin and Gerlach froze. They cautiously scanned the guards for any indication that they suspected the duo. At that moment, a blade pierced through the barrel’s lid from within. It rose into the throat of the nearest guard, and he dropped almost instantly, smashing his head against the barrel on the way down.

Their decision made, Gerlach and Hartwin jumped into action. Gerlach raced to the back of the cart, and the remaining spearman retreated toward the nearest wall. The general barely broke his stride as he rushed by the corpse, bending down to lay claim to the spear now loose on the dirt. The guard reached into a barely noticeable crevice along the wall and pulled a latch. He managed to shove open a heavy secret door, covered in logs, but Gerlach ran him through before he could go any further.

The portcullis crashed down with a mighty thud. Gerlach could hear the shouts growing from beyond. The charge had started too soon. His men were approaching quickly, and now their ingress point was blocked. Fehnia worked against them. Gerlach glanced back toward Hartwin, who now held the black-haired guard in a headlock. He lugged around the man as if he weighed nothing, single-handedly prying the lid of the four barrels. A purple-clad soldier rose from each.

“You didn’t have a single decoy barrel?”

“I said you didn’t want to know, but hey, more men, better odds.”

Two spearmen rushed in from the far gate as it crashed behind them. 

Hartwin rolled his eyes and waved his general onward. “We’ll follow as soon as we’re finished here.”

Gerlach turned and pressed up the stairs of the secret passage. They were narrow and steep. He had to twist as he climbed for fear of becoming jammed with shoulders against opposite walls, and his spear had to angle too far backward to be of use. It would have been an easily blockaded entrance had anyone extended the effort, but luckily for him, the fort was too disorganized. He took the flight and cautioned a peek at the walkway. There were no soldiers, no movement. Even still, he crouched and moved at a snail’s pace. He may have been armed, but he was still without the precious armor to which he had become accustomed. As he pushed forward, sound and movement drew his attention. The gatehouse door slammed close suddenly.

The large building consumed the entire walkway between the northern and southern forts. Four large stone pillars erupted from below, reinforcing the contents within. In the center of the wall before him, a heavy wooden door lined with metal stips blocked his passage. He could hear heavy thuds on the other side. They were barring the door, cowering in the southern half of the fort. Gerlach took a deep breath and put all his weight behind his shoulder. He slammed into the wooden surface with all his might, but it did not budge in the slightest. He grunted down the ache from the bruise he already felt forming along his forearm and backed up for another attempt. This time he jumped at the last second, but again nothing.

“Hartwin,” he called down over the stone lip. “I need your strength,”

His cousin rushed forth without hesitation but only managed a single step inside the hidden doorway. His broad shoulders wedged immediately in the narrow staircase.

“Hartwin, hurry.”

“A moment, I implore.”

Gerlach instructed the other four men how the hidden door had been unlatched. Surely there was another on the other end. Two rushed off to make use of the instructions while the remaining two attempted to free Hartwin.

Beyond the fort walls, the army had completed its charge. They now piled against the gate with great shouting and pounding. Despite the chaotic chorus below, Gerlach heard the unmistakable whoosh of a crossbow bolt being loosed. Years of training made it impossible for his ears to ignore. He leaned over the parapet and searched for the soldier now limp from the impact. Another bolt flew, then another. He hated identifying the faces of his fellow men. There laid Burkhard, whom he played cards with around the fire most nights. And that lad fallen, Gernuf, wasn’t it? He once lent his cape to the boy while they fought through the night near Charmont. They were good men whose losses would be felt. But they were not Sigeberht. At least they were not Sigeberht.

Gerlach turned once more toward the door and rubbed his shoulder. It ached, but that was no excuse to give up the assault while victory was so close. He rammed his shoulder into the reinforced door, and a crack called out. From the door or his own shoulder, he could not tell. Then a series of muffled thuds echoed forth from within, and the door opened. Beyond stood a single man, sword in hand. At his feet were 2 others, each doubled over and bleeding out from fatal wounds.

Gerlach raised his spear and readied a strike, but the man called out.

“No, no. I am the spy!” Gerlach relented. “Hartwin helped to station me weeks ago. Is he within?”

“He’s,” Gerlach considered his words, “occupied at the moment.”

“How is the assault progressing?”

“Help me raise the gate, already.”

In the center of the gatehouse, running parallel to the walkway, sat a massive cylinder with a metal wheel covered in geared teeth on either end. Ropes rose from the floor below and wrapped themselves tightly around the cylinder. The spy, who Gerlach failed to ask a name from, took hold of one wheel and kicked aside the bracing handle which held the wheels in place. His face turned red from the considerable effort as he wrapped the ropes a quarter turn further. Then he nodded to Gerlach, who repeated the action on his end. Again, a quarter turn, then brace until the other began their pull. They alternated like that until a full rotation was completed.

The gate below could not have been more than a foot or two off the ground, but the direction of shouts could only mean their reinforcements were within the walls and overrunning the southern fort. Progress. But their enemies were also aware. The south door of the gatehouse was violently kicked open. Two soldiers ran in, one piercing the spy’s chest before he had time to react. The wheel, too heavy to hold on his own, spun out of Gerlach’s hands, and the gate crashed below.

Gerlach ducked the incoming thrust intended for his chest and followed up with an upward thrust of his own. He twisted the spear as it sunk deep, following the man all the way to the ground. The second soldier was on him before he recovered. There was no time to withdraw his spear. Instinct worked against intuition. Gerlach lowered his head and raised his pauldron to take the brunt of the attack. But he wore no armor, no pauldron. An attempt was made to roll away, but he was too late. The blade cut deep into his shoulder.

He clutched at his wound, falling onto his back. His spear remained lodged in the corpse as he did so. No armor, no weapon. Curse Fehnia and her mischievous machinations. The enemy soldier swung again. The sword came down rapidly and caught on another blade in the nick of time. His fellow men from the barrels had finally made their way up to the gatehouse. The two of them made short work of the remaining soldier.

“Let me see your arm, General.”

“No, the gate,” Gerlach waved them away. “Raise the gate. I must find and protect the king.” He grunted with pain but managed to stand again. Blood flowed freely down his left arm. His fingers tingled and felt cold as warm life dripped from them. But he shook away the thought. He seized the sword from his attacker’s limp hand and rushed through the south door.

Beyond, two halves of a battle raged independently. On his left, a hundred of his men fought into and up the small staircases on either end of the alley. On his right, a dozen men raided their barracks, placing tables and chairs, chests and barrels against the entrances. Swords stabbed through the debris aimlessly in both directions. Gerlach knew the quickest way to help would also be the most painful, and he growled to himself for immediately positioning accordingly. One day these stunts would get him killed.

The wall and walkway traveled the length of the alley, and Gerlach moved along it until he was directly above two soldiers pressing against their makeshift blockade. They were young and not foolish enough to believe this would end with anything other than their deaths, but that fear has always been enough to drive a man forward, grasping for any extra seconds they could reach. Gerlach jump. He crashed onto them with as much force as he and gravity could muster. The three of them collapsed to the ground in a heap. Gerlach had led with his sword. As he fell, he drove it downward through the neck of the man on the right. It was a grizzly way to go, but he envied the bastard for what he and the other soldier were about the endure.

Within seconds, the blockade was thrown aside, and a hundred armored men rushed in, screaming for battle. Meanwhile, Gerlach and the boy soldier were directly before them, prone, sprawled out, and covered in blood. Feet pressed upon every part of their bodies. Arms, legs, face and backs all took blow after blow–sole after sole pressed against them with pressure enough to break bones.

It abruptly ended as Gerlach was hoisted to his feet by his bloody left arm. His guts rattled with pain. But he managed to recover his voice with great effort.

“Sigeberht!” He yelled over the sounds of blades clashing. “Where is Sigeberht?”

To which the tall man who had saved him from being crushed to death vaguely gestured toward the ongoing battle.

Gerlach issued another tear-filled growl and marched into the fray. His legs still obeyed his commands, thankfully. His ribs were cracked; he knew the moment a deep breath made him lightheaded. One eye was swelling shut by the moment. And his left arm didn’t tingle any longer. But he could move. So he did.

“Birdie!”

A blade from the chaos swung wildly toward his neck. He blocked it on instinct alone, and another of Gerlach’s men finished off the attacker. Gerlach nodded his thanks and stepped further in.

“Birdie!”

“I thought I told you, General.” The familiar voice came from over Gerlach’s bloody shoulder. Sigeberht adeptly fought two men at once. A circle formed around the battle. Men cheered on their young king as he dodged, parried, then counter-struck. One man fell to his knees. With another exchange of blows, the other fell as well. A cheer went out around the crowd. “You are to refer to me as king.”

His grin dissipated the moment he saw his old mentor. He rushed forward and called for a medic. Sigeberht held Gerlach in a bea rhug as the general’s legs gave out. The strength of his hold was surprising. When did that boy who couldn’t heft a sword become so strong?

“The fort is ours!” A cry followed moments later.

Sigeberht set the general in a chair, and both sighed heavily. Someone immediately began dressing Gerlach’s wound. They asked him to hold motionless, but Gerlach shook his swollen face.

“Lower the gates. Position archers on the eastern and western walls. Double along the east.”

“Do as he says,” Sigeberht ordered. Men immediately began scurrying about in obeisance.

“Divide the men between the two forts. Rebuild the blockades. Stuff the bodies in the barracks. We will soon be attacked, and I will not have us caught unprepared.” Gerlach looked to his ward. “Your brother will be here soon, my King. Are you ready?”

“You’ve completed your part admirably, General,” he answered. “Now let me do mine.”