Prologue: So It Begins (pt. 2)

The next morning Jarthen awoke to the sound of a rooster crowing at the rising sun. For those first few seconds right after he had woken up he had no memory of the previous night’s events. However, the knowledge that today was to be his first as a soldier quickly came to dominate his thoughts. He was nervous, so much so he was afraid that he would be sick.

“Well that would make me look quite good to the other men,” he thought, “scared out of my wits before I even get near the front.”

After he had gotten out of his bed and dressed, he headed to the kitchen for a spot of breakfast. Both his parents were already awake; his father was seated at the kitchen table while his mother was cooking some mush for their breakfast. Jarthen sat down without a word to either of his parents.

His father broke the silence, “I’m sure you won’t be away to long. These rebellions rarely last more than a couple months. Hell, before ya know it you’ll be back home again.”

Jarthen grunted an acknowledgement: he was in no mood for such small talk. His mother than served them their breakfast: it was a rather bland and pasty confection, but it filled a body up. They ate in silence. Jarthen was very meticulous about eating this meal for he knew that with each bite the time for him to depart grew nearer. When his bowl was scraped clean, he rose, and bid his parents farewell. It was a rather brief and emotionless goodbye, but such was the way of people during that time. So he left, and strode down the rode without another look back.

During his final meal at home, Jarthen had come to the conclusion that maybe his leaving home wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all: he had never particularly liked his parents, granted they had been good to him, feeding and caring for him, but he had never really developed a strong attachment to them. As he drew closer to the garrison, his fear, and nervousness began to melt away, and were replaced with a feeling of anticipation for the adventures he now dreamed of having.

Jarthen's mum's bowl of mush

******

For the next two weeks Jarthen was trained with all of the other recruits from the West Fethil area. It had been determined that Jarthen was too young and small to be an infantryman, and too poor to be a cavalryman, thus, the only thing left for him to do was to act as a porter for the army. He had no formal training, but, rather was immediately set to work preparing the army’s supply train for departure toward the front. Due to a severe shortage of manpower, Jarthen and approximately one hundred other raw recruits were being expedited to one of the Imperial Army’s main encampments near the great Erkenheld forest.

The time had come for Jarthen and his battalion to head off to battle. Now, war seems like it will be quite good fun when you’re a young boy playing at home with your friends, but when you actually prepare to head off for it and realize that its not a game, that your very life as well those of many others hang in the balance it kind of loses some of its appeal as Jarthen was beginning to find out.

And so, exactly two weeks and one day after he had found out that he was to be a soldier for Her Majesty’s Royal Army of defense, Jarthen was heading off to battle. This was both exciting and frightening for the boy, for though he knew that his life would be in great peril, he would perhaps have a chance to prove himself brave.

*****

It took the West Fethil Battalion almost a week of hard marching to reach their rendezvous point. They were joined there by many other groups from all over the good Queen’s dominion: all told there must have been close to 10,000 men. It was really a heart-warming sight to see these courageous men from all over the empire coming together for the common good.

The attack was to be under the command of one of the Queen’s top generals, Lord Topelthorpe. Topelthorpe was a man of approximately 60 years of age, he was thin and spry, with closely cropped hair, and a fine moustache that was waxed curled up at the ends. His uniform shirt was made from fine blue silk, with gold buttons, and almost completely encrusted with metals and ribbons for previous acts of valor. He wore a gleaming brass helmet with large cheek flares; a cloak of bear hide was draped about his shoulders. He carried a brightly polished gold and silver shield, while a matching sword dangled at his hip. All in all, he cut quite a dashing figure as he rode by the ranks on his charger.

The infantrymen were dressed in a much more functional manner, wearing suits of mail, open faced helmets with nose protectors, and leather doublets for added torso protection. Each of them carried a long spear, a round, studded metal shield, and a short sword. Jarthen and the other porters wore a simple tunic and breeches, carrying only a knife, some simple tools, and their meager rations.

When the great army had reached the northern borders of Elothnin, they made camp. The general planned on engaging the enemy the next day, however, he knew that the rebels might be to afraid to attack his force head on, and would instead elect to pursue a guerilla campaign. He decided that he would discover the enemy’s plans in the morning; after posting the guard assignments he went to bed. He would not sleep long.

Jarthen awoke to the sound of men screaming nearby. He had been sleeping on the ground under a long tent with all the other porters. At first he could not discern what the screams were about, but within seconds he had realized that the enemy was attacking. Forgetting his fears, he leapt from his bed to see what was happening. However, as soon he stepped out of his tent, he felt a hard blow to the head; the night had suddenly become much darker.

The singular Lord Topelthorpe