The #Broken_Dagger Forum

In Amasynia. Marshal Janessa Connors had had a sleepless night. Interrupted at the beginning of her rest by a furious looking Duke, who had stepped out of his gateway and commanded it left open. The orders that had come from his mouth were a surprise, considering his usual bend. But Connors knew when to nod her head. Knew when to obey. She -was- his woman to the core, through and through an agent of the Meadowland throne. So, as soon as the man had left, she had thrown herself out of her bed and went to work immediately. She wouldn't be able to collect all of her men, for there were still scouts strewn all across Amasynia, but most of them... Most of them.

In Thessilane. Marshal Davel Jacobs was in his office still when the Duke had appeared. The command he had issued was as much a surprise as anything, for it had been some time since the Companions were ordered from their place. At least in force, and not just the patrol usually issued to the Duke when he traveled about. But here he had ordered it, and then stepped back into his gateway to some other location. Jacobs ran a hand over his face slowly, then looked down at the papers before him. Eyes to peruse this, then a new sheaf was brought close and new orders written out.

In Myrken Wood. It was a few hours before noon had come, and gateways would open upon a field in the northern part of Myrken. It was a field that had already seen such, where the army under Connors had originally Traveled to on accident. Yet this time, there was no accident to the transfer. For the siegeworks (as they were, no true progress had been made other than to fortify their position) had been left behind in Amasynia, even the catapults they had built for the eventual assault had been left before the walls of Collingford. Nearly five thousand men had simply gotten up in the middle of the night and prepared for departure.

That crimson wave then stepped once more onto Myrken soil, where they were met by another gateway shining in the day. From that direction stepped two hundred upon horseback. Crimson and black their colouration here, with burnished breastplates upon their chests so bright they were almost blinding. The Companions. That Burel had taken them all was a thought that shocked Marshal Connors upon seeing them. It also meant that whomever commanded them now had command of her Legion as well. The Companions were a step above the regular military. Some of them scared her as much as the Aegis did. But the Companions came with supplies. Wagons and wagons of them, it looked like. Rations and supplies of wood and stone.

In any case, here they were, spilling upon Myrkensoil once more. To greet them was one single man in crimson finery. Robes that were ostentatious to the hilt, showing as much gold as crimson. As the last of the men were stepping into the province, he would hand the orders to the Marshal. Christoph al`Nerun would then turn to the Captain of the Companions, Tobias Keller, and then nod. As a group, they would turn and make the return ride to Myrkentown together. The Marshal blinked at this, then looked down at the packet in her hands. She didn't open it, she didn't have too. She knew.

They were here to stay.

Marshall Connors is not the only authority to field scouts across Amasynia; across Myrken Wood, in particular. Lothbury's is a fine network of able bodies and quick minds, and this morning word has travelled between them at an electrifying rate.

Hours before noon, gateways sprawl into being upon northern fields. Hours before noon, heavy Lothbury gates swing wide for the first time in months, wide enough to permit some exodus of uniformed bodies. There is nothing subtle in this spreading sea of maroon and scalded gold; there is no lack of armaments.

On the walls of Collingford, a tired, grey-faced Crispian Helstone watches the exodus. Leaving their fortifications half-built, two catapults and a third with bones begun -- they are gone.

He calls for his father, and the two of them consult; and when they agree, they put their plans into motion.

Uniformed Collingford men in blue and gold spill out the door with oil and torches, throwing buckets onto the catapults and, finally, flinging torches; they'll flee as fast as they can, afraid not of the fire but of what's coming next -- a small, thin girl with shaking hands and a strange light in her eyes, a corseted, lace-gloved lady through-and-through. Crispian leads her to the edge of the wall, his hand in hers as if she were a treasure in the library.

All is quiet for a moment; and then she extends one hand, shaking a little. Below her, the fortifications shake loose, first stone by stone and then atom by atom, and rise until they form nearly a second wall between the city and the trade road; and then she releases her hand, and they clatter down in a fine dust, blanketing out the grass to the road beyond.

She lets out a breath; her eyes are closed, and it's like a summer's day, like she's just felt the most beautiful cleansing rain of her life --

-- and there are no words as they leave. Helstones understand each other; they do not need them.

The borders of Westenford, Amasynia, had been closed to any and all land traffic that threatened to get within a mile of them without good reason thanks to recent word of military forces that seemingly spirit into and out of a country without warning. Granted, Westenford is largely self-sufficient, thanks to a wonderful mix of the combined fortunes of the Bellies over its Parliamentary Council and of the gifts from the sea, brought in by ships that go up and down the coastline that the city oversees. In fact, they've been able to go along with this plan, this way of life, for much of the last week or so without problems--and without a single coach, wagon, or horse entering or exiting.

Until this morning, that is.

Around dawn, the squinty, bleary eyes of two bored guardsmen settled on a particularly elaborate, lavishly decorated coach being pulled toward the town by a particularly fat, elderly, dappled horse. Riding forth to meet the carriage, one of them croaked out the usual stuff from the last few days--something about "Sorry to say so, but there isn't anyone getting through to Westenford without proper clearance from the Council; got a bunch of soldiers out yonder on the loose, and likely spies to boot, and--"

And he would be cut off immediately with a roared, "Hang it all, Corporal! Stop your babbling and let me in the city, mmph mmph!" from within the carriage in question. A familiar, fleshy, bald head with an enormous white beard poked out of a window to scowl at the pair of guards riding up.

Corporal Vessel would look to his left in surprise, and his fellow Corporal Hamm would look to his right. Both men snapped to attention with a salute to the familiar countenance of "Chief Magistrate Treadwell!" before waving him on, Hamm climbing atop his horse to escort the returned official home.

And back home he went, making first for the stone plaza in the heart of town. It was around breakfast time, and if Aloisius Treadwell knew anything about the town of his birth, it was that he could depend on seeing twenty-seven fat old men wobbling out of the local tavern, sated (some overly so!) on breakfast and taking their places on their usual benches for another morning of hashing around business that they pretend is rather important before they see to their lunches at the same tavern. A series of gasps and squeaks and croaked breaths sings forth from a most unusual choir as fifty-four eyes settle on a man absent a few months yet always revered in his appearances.

"Gentlemen, mmph mmph, I call this meeting of the Westenford Parliamentary Council, the twenty-eighth of October, Anno Regalis two hundred seven, to order. I believe we have some business to discuss regarding the armies of Thessilane, so led by one Duke Tassnehoff, and the concerns of how best to defend ourselves should they think, hmm hmm, to come knocking on our doors!"

From early afternoon, the Government's temporary offices bear a striking resemblance to a kicked hornets' nest; clerks, couriers, bureaucrats, constables and all manner of officials hurry back and forth, an air of frantic haste about them. Orders are dispatched, instructions issued, forces gathered and deployed.

A thousand men of Xanth Grange, stationed to the north of Myrkentown since the previous Thessilane incursion, break camp and move to the town's outskirts, within the perimeter of the hastily-excavated earthen ramparts that have been raised over the last month or more - little real obstacle, but all the fortification that Myrkentown has at present.

The Duke's Companions are watched carefully by Constables and townsfolk on their march through the streets, and though they meet no opposition there is a palpable air of relief as they depart again, escorting the Ducal family to... wherever it is they're going.

Meanwhile hurriedly-printed posters are distributed, notifying the populace of an emergency measure being put into place for the immediate future; as the daylight fades, Constables of the Night Watch begin ordering people off the streets, instructing them to return to their homes or, if they are visitors to Myrken, direction them to the nearest hostelry where they might find a bed for the night. The Constabulary is present in considerable strength, and their officers' manner is firm and determined, brooking neither dissent nor disobedience; many of the patrolmen bear sturdy crossbows, and all watch the streets and rooftops warily. The atmosphere is tense among Constables and civilians both, and likely to remain so for the immediate future.

An hour after sunset, and Myrkentown's streets are practically deserted, save for the Night Watch patrols; doors locked, shutters closed, the populace waits to see what will result of this fraught quiet.

The meeting raged on with many pursy old men raising voices and bellowing out threats and rage 'til they ran too short of breath. A solution was reached, of course. They agreed, on finding out that the armies had apparently left the area, to simply drop the subject and go about their lunch! Town guards were sent out to keep a close watch on the borders, just in case, and twenty-eight councilors went to the tavern.

Treadwell, though, had to come back to Myrken Wood sooner or later. Leaving out Monday morning meant a quick, though tiring, trip home. . . .

"Good gods! What in Tubbius's name is all THIS?" he'd ask on sighting the newfound Myrken reinforcements.

It had taken longer than expected in order to gather the legion commanded by Marshal Janessa Connors. To clean the fortifications they would leave behind of the detritus of their presence. To bury deep the latrines and pits used to hide the offal of five thousand men and five hundred horses. It would be almost as if the structures left in their wake had been vacant for the balance of the winter, if not longer, by the time that their full departure would be known by those within the township itself.

Five thousand men, their material and all their supplies, vanished through a shimmering gateway in the early hours of the morning. They had done a rather good job, leaving the building ready for whomever would occupy it next. If they wished too, anyway. For it sat, a squat thing made mostly of hard-packed dirt and wooden logs, up there near the border that led to Gheru Fenn.

But it was done. Another promise kept as seriously as any other.