Five men.
That was all that remained of the garrison at Northwatch.
When the bersark died, Aleksandr took the keep. The Svards and Kriegars fled north without any hint of a fight, and Steelshod went to liberate the defenders within the tower.
It was harder than expected. The barrier at the base of the tower was not a wooden door, but rather an iron gate. Portcullis, the Caedians called it. It was mangled and warped, bent so much by the bersark’s attempts to break through that they could no longer raise it at all.
But Aleksandr met the defenders through the gaps in the iron. Just five men. Wounded, exhausted, they had held out inside the tower for three days against thirty of the northmen.
The closest thing to a commander that remained among the defenders was a longbowman named Reynold. The others seemed to defer to him, though he was quick to clarify that he was neither knight nor serjeant.
“Got six arrows left between all of us,” he said to Aleksandr. “Ran out of food and water yesterday.”
The longbowman took a long gulp of water from a skin Aleksandr passed through the damaged portcullis. Reynold passed it around to the others, who all murmured thanks.
Steelshod handed them water, wine, and dried meat while Yorrin and Aleksandr studied the damaged portcullis. It took a full day of work on both sides to dismantle it enough to get it open. Aleksandr had his men drag the ruined portcullis over to the Northwatch smithy to be repaired.
“Smith’s dead,” Reynold said.
“That is fine,” Aleksandr replied.
Reynold seemed more than happy to defer to the mercenaries that had saved them from certain death. They did not balk at Aleksandr’s accent, nor Cara’s, nor even Gunnar’s. They’d watched from the tower as Gunnar spoke for Steelshod, negotiating the holmgang. They’d watched as Gunnar relayed Aleksandr’s order for the northmen to go. And then they went. It seemed that as far as the surviving garrison of Northwatch was concerned, Steelshod could do no wrong.
So Reynold didn’t question it when Aleksandr began stoking the forge fires, and set about repairing the iron portcullis himself. Nor did he seem perturbed when someone hung a spare Steelshod cloak from the top of the tower beside the banners of Caedia and Wigglesworth. Aleksandr was not sure how he felt about that, but he decided not to countermand the order. He conferred privately with Perrin about the etiquette of Caedian banners.
“Uh,” Perrin gave Aleksandr a nervous look when he realized the reason for their meeting. “Actually, sir, it was—it was my idea. It’s common for a lord to fly his own banner alongside the others, when he’s garrisoning a keep. We might be mercs, but—well. We’re not fighting this war for the coin. You’re as noble as any Caedian lord. I figured—”
“Is fine, Perrin,” Aleksandr said. It might give offense, but not too much, he decided. That was good enough for him.
Aleksandr kept men posted on the walls and atop the tower day and night. Watching in case the Svards returned, and also watching for the arrival of Lord Cox and his army.
The first sighting was neither. It came just three days after they’d taken Northwatch—two days after they’d freed the men from within the tower. The men on the tower reported to Aleksandr, and so by the time the strangers reached the keep he was armed and armored and waiting for them.
They flew an unfamiliar banner, but Reynold’s men had recognized it already.
“Brązogóra,” he said. “Most folks south of the Ironblood call it Dunridge.”
Brązogóra was a name Aleksandr had heard, at least. A Middish border kingdom, sandwiched between the Caedian Loheim and the southernmost parts of Rusk—namely, the lands of Yerevan and Bayard Bogdanov. Brązogóra was more Middish than it was Ruskan—its people were fully Torathi, as far as Aleksandr had heard. But it was, perhaps, a little closer to Ruskan than most Middish kingdoms were.
The Brązogórans numbered over a hundred. A score of riders trailing a long column of infantry. Reynold identified the banner they flew as that of house Kazlow—a neighbor. Kazlow was a border lord of Brązogóra, his lands east of Northwatch.
“The Kazlows are alright,” Reynold muttered. “Or they used to be. Lord Houtham always liked Lord Kazlow, they knew each other since they were both lads. But Lord Kazlow died last year. His son, Torthian, has a reputation for fighting… Kriegars, and his own countrymen in border skirmishes. Lord Houtham thought he was a bit of a gloryhound, from what I’ve heard.”
Aleksandr was standing above the gate when the riders reached Northwatch. They did not keep their distance from the walls—a good sign, that they were not anticipating violence. But they were heavily armed and armored. There was no mistaking this force for anything but a small army—twenty knights and perhaps a hundred footmen. Enough to try to take the keep, it they were willing to bleed for it
“Hail!” called the lead rider. He looked to be a big man, with a thick mustache and short dark hair. He wore plated mail. “I am Lord Torthian Kazlow! What banner hangs from that tower?”
Kazlow’s accent sounded odd to Aleksandr. His Middish was essentially flawless, but the accent sounded very similar to the Ruskan accents in Yerevan. Similar, but not quite the same.
“Hello,” Aleksandr said. He did not shout, but he spoke loudly and trusted his voice would carry down from the wall. “I am Aleksandr Kerensky, commander of Steelshod company. We serve Lord Marshal of Caedia.”
Lord Kazlow squinted at Aleksandr, a frown on his lips. “Our reports said Kriegars had taken Northwatch, and killed the defenders. Neither your name nor your company is known to me. Open the gates.”
“Your reports were correct,” Aleksandr said. “But we have retaken the keep in Caedia’s name.”
Kazlow did not seem pleased at the news. “Where is Lord Houtham?” he asked.
“Dead,” Reynold piped up from a few feet further along the wall. “Most everybody is. The northmen put everyone they could to the sword. Just a few of us survived, to be rescued by Steelshod.”
Kazlow scowled at Reynold. “And you are one of these? A survivor? You vouch for this Aleksandr Kerensky?”
Reynold nodded. “Yessuh, most definitely.”
Kazlow didn’t seem to find the news in any way reassuring. Aleksandr thought he was beginning to perceive why.
“Lord Kazlow, may I ask: what has brought you here?” Aleksandr asked.
“We heard Northwatch had fallen to barbarians,” Kazlow said. “We came to liberate it.”
Liberate it for Brązogóra, not for Caedia, Aleksandr decided. The Svardic invasion provided the perfect excuse for an invasion. He is not seizing a keep from Caedia, he would no doubt insist. He is seizing it from the invaders. And no doubt he would have returned it to Caedia… one day, if given sufficient “thanks” from the Caedian crown.
Aleksandr had little stomach for such politicking. “A noble goal,” he said. “But unnecessary, as you can see.”
“Yes,” Kazlow said. “I suppose so. Have you any need of supplies? We have a caravan…”
“We are quite alright,” Aleksandr said. “Is good to hear you are well supplied, however. You will then forgive if we do not host you, da? We are spread thin, and our relief army is not likely to arrive for another day or two.”
Which means you’ll have no time to siege us out, Aleksandr added silently. Nothing to be gained here, Kazlow.
“Ah, very good,” Kazlow said, his tone giving the lie to his words. “Well then. You clearly have things well in hand. We will be away.”
Aleksandr nodded. “Da,” he sad. “This would be best. Thank you for your concern, Lord Kazlow. Safe travels.”
Kazlow nodded curtly. He gestured to his men, and his column began the laborious task of turning around. It was another hour before they descended down past the trees, and several more hours before the sentries on the tower confirmed that the Brązogórans had vanished beyond the eastern horizon.
Steelshod remained on high alert for the rest of the day. And every day after that, at Aleksandr’s order. Just in case the Kriegars and Svards returned, or Kazlow’s men, or any other potential threats. Through it all, Aleksandr spent most of his days at the forge, working to repair and rebuild the iron latticework of the portcullis. He enlisted the help of his men at various times, to help him lift the heavy beams of the portcullis or to work the bellows or otherwise serve as another pair of hands.
Aleksandr felt himself falling into a routine. It felt good to work his body to the limit all day, and sleep his aches away each night. To do honest work, work a bayard’s son would never normally dream of doing.
To do something with his hands that did not end with dead men staring up at him as he ripped his steel out of their cooling bodies.
“You there! Blacksmith! I was told the knight-captain was to be found this way. Clearly I was misinformed. Where is the man they call Kerensky? And I pray you do not waste my time the way those fools at the gate did.”
Aleksandr did not look up from his work. He was nearly finished working one of the large iron bars that would eventually serve in the portcullis, and this step required his concentration.
He’d heard the commotion at the gate, of course. Heard the announcement before that, when the tower sentries spotted the relief army coming up the road. Heard the gates open and the men come pouring into Northwatch. He’d even heard the commotion as Sir Davrien Cox, the commander of this small army, began demanding reports on the status of the keep. And then demanded to meet with Steelshod’s commander.
“One moment, please,” Aleksandr said. He gripped the iron beam with thick leather gloves and leveraged it into a trough to quench. The water hissed and sizzled, and clouds of steam erupted into Aleksandr’s face.
“Do you not know who I am, man?” Cox snapped. “I am Sir Davrien Cox, the new lord of this backwater by decree of Lord Wigglesworth!”
If you wish to sound intimidating, perhaps refrain from saying his name aloud, Aleksandr thought. Nevertheless, he pulled off the thick gloves. They left his hands and forearms sweaty, and he wiped them on the leather apron he wore before pulling that, too, off. He wore no shirt beneath it—too hot—but he reached for his tunic and shrugged it over his shoulders.
“Smith, I swear, if you don’t—”
Aleksandr turned to face the young lord. He grinned.
Cox was young. You’re young, too, Aleksandr reminded himself. But even so, Cox looked younger. He had a wispy mustache and soft cheeks. The mail he wore gleamed with polish. His tabard was slightly muddy from travel, but it looked relatively crisp and newly tailored.
He wore an imperious look, eyes narrowed in distaste and mouth set in a disapproving frown. Aleksandr’s smile did nothing to calm him, and when Aleksandr offered a hand to shake, Cox gave it a scornful look.
“I am Aleksandr Kerensky,” Aleksandr said. “Son of Bayard Valentin, of Pripia, and Commander of Steelshod. It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Cox.”
The young lord’s mouth dropped open, and stayed that way for several long seconds. Aleksandr stifled a laugh. He let his hand hang in the air between them, and he waited for Cox to recover.
Finally, Cox’s mouth snapped shut so hard Aleksandr heard his teeth clack. He reached out and gripped Aleksandr’s hand tightly. He shook it frantically, his eyes wide and blinking.
“Sir Kerensky!” he blurted out. “It is—good to meet you! Ah, yes. Very good! Pleased to—I mean, the pleasure is mine!”
Cox continued shaking Aleksandr’s hand long past the point of propriety. He seemed to realize it eventually, and he awkwardly let go. He swallowed, visibly uncomfortable. Then he spoke words Aleksandr had not expected to hear.
“I—Please forgive my demeanor, Sir Kerensky,” Cox said sheepishly. “I was rude.”
Oh, Aleksandr thought. That’s surprising. I may be noble, but I’m also a sellsword. He didn’t seem the type to apologize so quickly. Perhaps I judged him too harshly.
“Is no problem Sir Cox,” Aleksandr said. “And please, call me Aleksandr.”
Cox nodded. “And you must call me Davrien, please.”
“Da, very well. Davrien. You have arrived on schedule, it seems?”
“Ahead of schedule, I had thought,” Davrien said. He rolled his eyes. “Until I arrived and found the fighting over, the keep retaken. You have been busy.”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “You have already heard what happened?”
“Some, yes,” Davrien said. “You defeated the Svardic commander in single combat, and they just left?”
“Close enough, da.”
“Very impressive, in any case,” Davrien said. “Lord Wigglesworth told me to expect to have to take back Northwatch by storm. I have two hundred men beneath me for that very task.”
“You will have to hold it, still,” Aleksandr said. “We did not slay the other Svards or Kriegars. They may regroup, return.”
Davrien nodded. “We will. To that end, I had a request for you.”
“Da?”
“I—I know I am not your commander, per se,” Davrien was quick to add. “Your task is done, and done very well. I’ll be happy to send a dispatch with you when you leave, a message for the Marshal telling him what you did. But if you’d be willing…”
“Davrien,” Aleksandr said gently. “What is your request?”
The young lord smiled. “Your company is all mounted, aren’t they? Or nearly? My men are mostly foot, and the knights—well, anyway, I was hoping you could have your men do a bit of scouting. The farmland to the south and east, the fishing villages on the coast, and the folk that live along the outskirts of the Stropwood to the north. Get the lay of the rest of the land, see what signs of northmen you can find. And tell any common folk you find to come to Northwatch for safety.”
He is not such a bad knight after all, Aleksandr decided. Nor will he make a bad lord, if indeed Wigglesworth intends for him to take over this holding given that the old lord has died. A bad mood and some impatience is inconsequential, compared to the value of a noble that recognizes his true duty is to the people he rules—the people he serves.
“Davrien,” Aleksandr said. “This would be our pleasure. Steelshod will see it done.”
Davrien grinned. “Thank you, Sir Kerensky! Aleksandr, I mean.”
“Da, is no problem.”
“Um, there was one more thing. If you don’t mind…”
“Da?”
“Maybe you could stay here when your men go scouting?” Davrien asked. He nodded at the hulking shape of the half-repaired portcullis that loomed over most of the smithy. “I have a feeling that may be needed again before this war is done, and I have no idea how to fix it.”
Aleksandr laughed. “Da,” he said. “This, too, will be my pleasure.”
Davrien sighed with relief. “Thank you,” he said. After a pause, he added “I have to say, Aleksandr… when I heard that a band of Ruskan mercenaries had been sent ahead of me…”
“Steelshod is not what you expected,” Aleksandr offered the obvious conclusion to the trailing thought.
Davrien nodded. “Not at all, no. I’m glad I was wrong.”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “When I heard you arrive, and heard you ask to meet with me…”
Davrien winced. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose that set some expectations, didn’t it? I—I’m sorry about that, again.”
Aleksandr reached out and clapped the young knight on the shoulder. “I am glad I was wrong as well,” was all he said.
It was enough.