Literary Game #11 - Two Fathers

This post was inspired by Literary Game Number 11 from @allentaylor. Sssssh, I'm not allowed to use the word "hostage" 😉

This tale is set in my Homebrew D&D world, in the Kingdom of Narheim.

Image by Alfred Derks from Pixabay

The feast started early, and would last long into the small hours, when the last reveller staggered off to bed or (just as likely) fell into a drunken stupor where he sat. It was the sixteenth anniversary of the founding of the Kingdom of Narheim, and King Siggjan was revelling in his achievement.

If the truth be told, he'd had a lot of outside help. Among the boisterous Narheimer jarls, or barons as he was trying to persuade them they should be called in this new modern era, sat clusters of Jaktan knights. The red surcoats of the retinue of Sir Frantz von Sarram, the multicoloured heraldry of the mercenary knights of the Royal Jaktan Volunteers, and the white ones blazoned with a red upward-facing arrow of the sombre Knights of Tyr.

To the left of Siggjan sat his queen, Melisande, cousin of the powerful Count Ordens of Sarram. To his right sat a row of sons, diminishing in height, age and importance the further they sat from the royal presence.

And what a presence ! Siggjan was a giant; loud, large, brash and boastful, his red beard perfectly groomed, the golden circlet on his head polished to a mirror finish.

He raised his goblet in yet another toast. "My Lords and Ladies, I give you a toast to Ralf. Today is his sixteenth birthday. It was auspicious that he was born on the day the Kingdom was founded, and today I am formally adopting him as my son. Third in line to the throne after my two natural sons. Raise a cup to Ralf... Eiriksson no longer, now he's Siggjansson !"

The hall erupted with a cheer and everyone rose and quaffed large mouthfuls of mead or ale. Ralf stayed sat in his chair, pale and shocked. No-one had bothered to tell him of this beforehand, and he wondered if his birth-father had been consulted.

The Siggjan turned to the boy with a huge grin on his face and asked the fateful question.

"So tell me boy, where is your birth father ? He's one of my greatest jar.. barons.... He should be here at this feast, but his chair is empty !"

Ralf just shrugged slightly, growing even paler, hating this limelight.

"I... I don't know, your Grace. I thought he'd be here, but have hardly spoken with him since you took me into your court ten years ago."

Although he braced himself for an explosion, it didn't come. When Ralf looked up, the King's head was bowed and a messenger was whispering in his ear.

When Siggjan next spoke, all trace of drunken braggadocio was gone from his voice. Those who knew him immediately recognised the ruthless intelligence that was normally concealed by his brash front.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry but the feast is over. I have just received news that three of my barons have risen in revolt and are marching on Aquilholm as we sit here. They'll arrive sometime tomorrow. Council of war at dawn. Have all your men break fast and be armed and ready by then."

Sir Konrad Tarneville of the Knights of Tyr was the one to call out the question everyone was wondering. "Which barons have committed treason, Sire ?"

"Lokisvar of the sign of the ferret, the Dog-Jarl Guthsig... and Eirik Fingsson of the Bull Clan."

Ralf felt faint. His birth father, named a traitor by the King, his now adopted father.

Siggjan must have seen. In a gentler tone than was usual, he addressed his new son. "My boy, I've adopted you. That spares you from execution as the law would normally require of someone in your situation whose family commits treason. But I won't demand that you stand with me on the field of battle as I confront the rebels, as I would normally expect of my sons."

With that, the King strode away to sleep off the drink and be ready for what the next day bought.

Map created in Wonderdraft, showing Narheim and nearby realms

It was late morning. The rebel army had arrived before Aquilholm's walls, but the city's defences were still under construction and offered little defence. So now the two hosts faced each other, each on a low ridge with a shallow grassy valley separating them. A rivulet ran down the centre, but it would be no obstacle to charging knights or disciplined infantry.

Not that either army had many disciplined infantry. The rebels relied on the hearthguards of the barons together with a horde of levied peasants and a few of the remaining berserker clans. They had few knights; just the barons and their closest retainers.

The Royal army had a solid core of Jaktan knights, and a good number of knights provided by those barons who had adopted the new ways; maybe eight hundred men in all. But with little time to call up levies, the only infantry were the thousand dwarves of the Nieblings regiment, provided as a gesture of friendship by Mount Stonedelving and (rumour had it) paid in beer, and a few hundred archers and spearmen of the Aquilholm City Guard.

Three riders trotted out from the rebel host, halting at the rivulet.

"They mean to try this the old way, with a challenge to a duel. Three on one." The King laughed grimly, and waved for archers to chase the emissaries away.

When he turned back, something caught his eye. "Hey, I know that armour. Is that you Ralf ? I said you shouldn't be here. And what's that you've got on your arm ?"

Ralf lifted his visor, and held up his freshly painted shield. The arms of Narheim, with the royal crown replaced by a golden mullet of cadency.

"You made me your son, Sire. This is my place," was all Ralf said, his voice high and clear. A murmur of appreciation rippled around the nearby knights.

A roar from across the valley echoed across the rolling landscape. The indistinguishable blending of nearly four thousand war cries as the rebel host surged forward.

"A mistake, my Lord," Sir Frantz von Sarram commented dryly. It was his job as trainer of the King's knights to point such things out, and he was known to be a wily tactician.

"Charge them as they reach halfway up our slope."

"Not as they cross the rivulet ?" Siggjan asked his advisor.

"No; it's no barrier. But halfway up the rise they'll be committed but blown."

Siggjan grinned. And waited.

The enemy peasants grew less enthusiastic as they had to start up the rise. It was gentle, but enough to reduce the older ones to breathlessness. The sight of the long line of grim mail-clad men on big horses silently waiting for them also helped sap their keenness.

Then the knights charged with King Siggjan at their head, and the battle devolved into chaos.

Peasants were bowled over or trampled, but the hearthguard and berserkers fought fiercely, holding their ground against lance and axe, dying where they stood.

Ralf followed the King, although the nearest knights of the Household made sure he didn't have to do any actual fighting.

Then the rebel lords played their last card. Their small band of knights, held back in reserve, hammered into the chaotic melee. A wedge aimed straight at the King.

They punched through the confusion and into the Royal Bodyguard. Their horses were fresh and their arms not wearied from slaughter, and this gave them the advantage. Siggjan's horse went down, and the King threw himself clear.

As he tried to stagger to his feet, a huge plate-armoured knight bearing the emblem of a bull on his surcoat knocked him to the ground.

Ralf saw this as if in a dream. As the enemy raised his morning star to deliver the fatal blow, Ralf spurred his horse in front of the man, stabbing downward with his sword. He felt the blade slip between the man's gorget and bevor. An impossible blow, but the angle made it possible.

Choking on his own blood, the assailant fell backwards. As the back of his head hit the ground, the visor was knocked open. Ralf found himself staring straight into the dying face of his birth-father.

A hand landed on his shoulder. The King. "You saved my life, son. It looks like the Bull clan needs a new baron. I know it's not how you'd have chosen it, but it's yours now."