A Feud

The Sun was high on the horizon, and the royal party of Joltenheim was ready for departure. The knights were shining in their armor; the sigil of the house, Snowfell, 'The Half-moon', was standing out in the golden armor. It was colored silver and shone the most.

The smell of fine, expensive wine erupted as Schnitzel opened up a flask. "Nothing finer than wine before a journey, eh? Vandil," Schnitzel spoke before emptying the flask of wine. He was a tall, gray-haired man. He was handsome if you overlooked the nasty scar over his face, which cut his lips. 

"Yes, Colonel," replied Major Vandil, his expression blank as always. A leaner man than Schnitzel, Vandil was all sharp edges and stillness. His gray eyes were unreadable, and his long, black hair, tied with a metal ring, hung down to his hips. His left hand rested firmly on the hilt of his sword.

A rough hand clapped down on Schnitzel's shoulder.

"Drinking again, Redwing?" came a gravelly voice from behind. 

Schnitzel turned to see a man with short, black hair streaked with gray and a beard to match. His right eye was missing, the closed lid a permanent reminder of war.

"Apologies, Lord Commander," Schnitzel straightened and saluted.

Schnitzel turned to see his Lord Commander, Silver Triad. He straightened and saluted, "Apologies, Lord Commander."

Vandil saluted, "Lord Commander." His voice was low and toneless. His face was again without any expression.

"Quartermaster Azeel!" Triad called, his sharp gaze cutting toward a figure standing a few feet away. Azeel, a bald, hunched man with a short mustache, shuffled forward.

"No more wine for Colonel Redwing."

Azeel nodded, glancing at Schnitzel before giving him a quick wink.

"May the gods bless you, Quartermaster," Schnitzel muttered under his breath with a chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. Vandil, as always, remained silent beside him, just stood there in silence with his usual look.

"Saddle up, lads! We're about to leave," the duke's voice rang out.

The duke traveled with a company of 125 fighting men: seventy-five of the ducal army, including a few high-ranking officers, twenty-five from Old Field under Baron Möbius Asellus, and twenty-five from Old Barn under Count Alexander Asellus. Along with them rode others—servants, women, and a captive, the former Count Renard Clove.

"What exactly is your post in Old Barn, Ser Mitchel Greyhound?" asked Alexander.

Ser Mitchel Greyhound was a known swordsman, he was in his late thirties and had an average-looking face, with gray hair and black eyes. "I was the Captain of the Count's Guard."

"Oh, I thought a man of your talents would be the Marshal." 

"Lord Darius was in that position; he loved fighting."

"And he's dead," said Alex.

"He certainly is, My Lord," Greyhound said with a sorrowful tone in his voice.

"From today onwards, you'll be the Marshal of my army." 

Ser Mitchel straightened in his saddle. "It's an honor, My Lord."

"There are lots of things I need to know about the functioning of my county; tell me as best as you can."

"Well, the old barn mainly lives from dairy and agriculture. We mainly earn taxes from farmers, merchants, and barons. Master Richard Wilson can tell you in detail about that," Mitchel said. "

"And how much of your income goes to the duchy?"

"Sixty percent, I believe," Greyhound said.

"Sixty percent," Alexander repeated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"It's almost night. We'll camp soon, I believe."

"We will," said Alexander.

Preto was sitting alone by the fire in a separated area of the camp when all were asleep. The leaves of trees nearby were dancing in the tune of his song.

"Nights have been so cold.

Without your love.

I'm turning old.

Without your love."

"Remember the day?

We were together.

In every single way,

We were together."

"Atop the tower,

I sang for you.

O, beautiful flower,

I sang for you."

"And who might this lucky girl be?" Came a voice from behind. 

Preto recognized the voice without turning. It was Alexander.

"Definitely not Margot Clove," Preto chuckled.

"It's not funny, my Duke," Alexander sneered.

"I am not the Duke yet," Preto replied.

"And I've no ties to Margot Clove," Alexander muttered, his tone darkening. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Now, who is she?"

Preto's only reply was a knowing smile.

"Shall I talk to the Duke about your marriage?" Alexander said, a little too loudly.

"Shut up, you fool! Don't talk so loudly," Preto put a hand on his mouth. "I'm no coward. I'll discuss it with my father myself."

"He'll be thrilled."

"Oh, he'll be delighted," Preto chuckled.

"Well, great for you," Alexander said. He paused for a moment. "However, that wasn't so great of you to put me in a bad position."

"Bad Position?" Preto questioned.

"Yeah, Bad Position. A falling county, and a shit ton of tax. How am I to pay 60 percent of my earnings to you? The county is certain to fall."

"Humph," Preto sighed.

"What?" Alexander roared. "I can't squeeze the life out of people like Clove did."

"If you don't pay full tax, the other three Counts will do the same. The duchy will fall. Find some other way to earn," Preto said.

"There is no other way," Alexander replied.

"Then find one. Increase tax on merchants perhaps,"

'that can be considered' Alexander thought. "they will raise prices, and people will face hard times."

There was silence.

"I'll see what I can do," Preto said, putting a hand on his face. 

"You have my thanks, Friend," Alexander said, getting to his feet and trailing towards the tents.

Major Vandil was lying on the grass, staring up at the moon. 'Many years now…' he thought.

"Major," a soldier whispered.

Vandil gripped his sword and got to his feet. "Yes," said his cold voice.

"This is for you. Thanks for saving my life the other day," he said, offering him a necklace. "I would've been executed if it were not for you." 

Vandil took the necklace and put it into his pocket and nodded.

"I guess I should go then. My name is Griffin Sword," the young man smiled. "I owe you my life, Ser."

'Sword? He's from Johnsburg,' Vandil thought.

"'Ere, Colonel, if the Lord Commander finds out," Quartermaster Azeel paused for a second. "I'll blame you for stealing," Azeel said, handing a flask of wine to Colonel Schnitzel.

"Yeh?, he won't know…" Colonel Schnitzel smirked.

There was a movement on the other side of the camp. It was nearly the time of day break, and a figure was making some sort of drink over the fire.

"Who's that?" The Colonel asked.

"Can't say for sure. It seems like the Dolton lad. He's the tallest in the party," Azeel replied.

"Dolton?" Schnitzel slurped some wine down his throat. "Why is a peasant with us, eh?" 

"He's a lackey of the Blonde," The Quartermaster gave a sour expression at the Colonel drinking in the early morning.

"O yeh?" The Colonel chuckled, walking towards the man.

Aeron Dolton was an absurdly tall man, not very bulky, yet scary. He was in his late 20s. His hair was very short. He was already near balding, unusual for his young age.

"Eh, lad, what're you up to?" 

"Tea, for Count Asellus," The tall man answered.

"Tea, eh?" The Colonel paused, expecting a salute which never came.

"I take it that you were not tutored properly, growing up in poverty. Around 'ere we salute our superiors," The Colonel clenched his fist and smiled.

Aeron moved a step forward. A muscle twitched near his jawline. He smiled. "I have only one superior. You are no lord of mine." He stared Aeron in the eye.

"You know, in traveling parties, not all people return alive," The Colonel put a hand at the hilt of his sword.

"O, yeh. Any last word for your family then?" Aeron sneered.

"You know, your old peasant begged for his life, kissing my feet, after the bastard abandoned my brother in the battle of Branford." Aeron's face darkened.

"I will have you do the sa—"

Aeron smashed his right fist into the Colonel's face, throwing him down to the ground. Then came a barrage of fists to the Colonel's face. Left Right Left Right the punches kept coming before a man came rushing to the Colonel's rescue. It was the Lord Commander.

"You bastard," he punched Aeron in the face, knocking him down in a single punch. He gave a hand to the colonel, helping him rise to his feet. The colonel's face was dripping blood from the punches.

"Bloody shit," the colonel unsheathed his sword.

"Stop it, Schnitzel," the Lord Commander barked.

The colonel was panting. He resisted his urge to drive his sword into Aeron's body and sheathed his sword. He rushed away. "Bloody Cunt" he whispered under his breath. "This feud, will not end 'ere"