The throne room of the castle of Astaril had known many grand functions over the course of its existence. Weddings, knighting ceremonies, funerals, presentation of royal babies and heirs to the throne, even the appointment of bishops when the previous head of the Order of the Grail died or retired.


    However, despite or perhaps because of its auspicious heritage, the throne room had never been used as a war room…until now.


    Tables had been carried in by a fleet of servants, each a designated area where officers of the military could gather and speak over specific topics. There was a table covered in maps, another with increasing information about weapon inventory and uniform/armour possibilities. There was one table entirely dedicated to the archdeacons and Bishop Peele who had availed their vast knowledge to the cause but preferred a place where they could oversee proceedings without needing to mingle. This table was largely unapproached.


    Oddly enough, Caste Undern, despite being an officer of the Grail, was one who did not approach the Order table. This was partially because the table allocated to the Order of the Grail officers had only thirteen seats, room enough for twelve archdeacons and one bishop. But the other reason was that Judd LaMogre moved from table to table, discussing various options and listening to advice given to him. It would have been very simple for the newly knighted, broken hearted and somewhat overwhelmed young man to make a break for it and never look back but Caste was always by his side, taking notes, assuring Judd that he did not have to remember every little detail for that was the deacon’s role.


    And Caste was extremely good at it.


    He could remove himself from the emotion that others might be feeling and even succumbing to.


    Given the odds he was calculating of their chances of survival against the might of the southern fort forces, Caste found himself in a rather enviable position which he found more surprising and distracting than fear, anger or sorrow.


    Judd rubbed his forehead as he looked at the numbers of soldiers in the Astaril military.


    “Please tell me you are rounding down those figures.” He asked Caste quietly, knowing that words in the marble hall were easily overheard despite the thrum of activity around them.


    “Unfortunately they are accurate.” Caste admitted. “Astaril’s soldiers only number a third of the possible force commanded by Garo Rylan.” Judd groaned and rubbed his face. “I…had to estimate the number of soldiers in each of the wall forts as these figures are at least five years old,” he said pointing to the clerical accounts sent from the forts, “and it doesn’t include the likely addition of guards that would join their ranks…” He caught sight of Judd’s pained expression. “I could be wrong…”


    “I’d rather have the truth than be caught off guard.” Judd shook his head. “What in Maul am I doing, Caste? How can I possibly lead Astaril’s soldiers against the whole of the south?”


    Caste frowned. “The numbers are not in our favour,” he admitted, “but we may yet receive reinforcements from Fort Faine and Fort Bastil.”


    Judd turned and leaned against the table, folding his arms. “Can you really see Sir Jesa getting off his backside to answer the call of the King, especially when it’s to follow a man he threatened months ago?”


    “If he doesn’t and the throne is victorious, he will quickly find himself without a fort to luxuriate in.” Caste pointed out.


    “He might be betting against us.”


    “He may send a few soldiers as a sign of good will without having to come himself.”


    Judd rolled his eyes then sighed. “I suppose I’d prefer six overfed and undertrained soldiers compared to Sir Jesa, even if he is a knight.”


    “Simple mathematics,” Caste nodded, “it is more likely we will receive two dozen or more soldiers from Fort Bastil.”


    “And at least they will be able to hold their own,” Judd frowned, “I am loathed to let Sir Alaykin go with us should he volunteer.”


    “Why ever not? Sir Alaykin is an excellent swordsman.”


    “He just had a daughter and lost his wife,” Judd swallowed, “I don’t want to make his little girl an orphan.”


    Caste shook his head and closed his slate where he had been using chalk to scribe figures and do his calculations. “Judd, by that token there are many who could excuse their way out of battle.”


    “How can I deny a father’s plea should he make it?” Judd hissed, glancing around to make sure they weren’t heard. “Caste, you’ve seen the figures…if we don’t get some support soon, this is going to be a massacre, not a battle.”


    Caste opened his mouth to argue but realised he couldn’t. He had studied ‘Battle Equations for Success’ at length. It had been his go to book when he couldn’t go to sleep for it would knock him out in ten minutes. However, he remembered some of what he gleaned from its pages before succumbing to sleep. Had the author of the book looked at the figures on his slate, he would have advised immediate and absolute surrender to preserve the greatest amount of lives.


    “Perhaps Suvau and Giordi will have more luck…” Caste offered weakly.


    “You really think the outcast nomads and the subjugated Mauls would ever want to fight for the throne of Astaril?” Judd asked dryly.


    “I think there are several who would gladly exact some vengeance of their treatment on soldiers from the south…”


    “Several is not enough,” Judd murmured, “and the throne of Astaril mightn’t have condoned Maul treatment…but it didn’t stop it either.”


    “I think that could have more to do with the Order of things.” Caste grunted, casting a disparaging eye towards the Grail table where the archdeacons and bishop were debating about something. He sighed and looked down at his slate, tapping his chalk against it. “Quarre may also provide some soldiers now that Sir Ector is there.”


    “Still…it’s not enough…” Judd turned and put his hands on the table and lowered his head. “We need more…a lot more…”


    “Judd!” He looked up as Verne jogged towards him, getting a glare from the archdeacons. “I mean, Sir LaMogre.”


    “What is it?”


    “You should come outside.”


    “Fresh air might do you good?” Caste shrugged helplessly as Verne gestured for Judd to follow him. They left the throne room, heading for the foyer and out the front doors.


    “Are we making a break for it?” Judd asked.


    “I think you’d have a hard time getting through.”


    “Through what?”


    “Not what. Who.” Verne winked and gestured to the courtyard before the lowered dais. Filling the space between fountain and gate were dozens of men ranging in age from mid-adolescents still covered in spots to older men who had a little grey in the hair on their heads, chin and in some cases, coming out of their ears. And if that wasn’t enough, the gates were not shut as the flow of men was spilling out onto the paved curved road.


    “Those with fighting experience move to this side of the courtyard, those without, to the other.” A man that Judd vaguely remembered ordered. He was in an Astaril military uniform with ashen hair and a gruff voice.


    “What is all this?” Judd gasped.


    “When war was declared, carrier pigeons were immediately sent to the corners of northern Astaril, calling for able bodied volunteers to fight.”


    “They’re here to defend Astaril.” Judd nodded, abashed. “I should have realised there was much more loyalty to the throne than what Rylan’s words put into my head.”


    “Actually I think you’ll find that they’re here mostly for you.”


    Judd turned to Verne, stunned for a moment then laughed mockingly. “Yeah…you had me for a moment…”


    “I’m serious!”


    Judd was going to argue or perhaps turn his back and walk away when someone called out his name.


    “That’s Sir Judd LaMogre!”


    “Sir LaMogre! Slayer of the hydra!”


    “Sir Judd LaMogre who killed a werewolf!”


    “He’s here! He’s actually here!”


    Judd looked around, somewhat amused and slightly terrified at the way the men were surging forward, cheering and applauding.


    “Get back you undisciplined whelps!” The soldier who had been organising them ordered, coming up the steps. “Apologies, Sir LaMogre,” he said, bowing to Judd, “they’re bedazzled by the presence of their hero.”


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    “I feel a little sick…” Judd said faintly before shaking it off. “You seem familiar to me…”


    “I’m Everid, a sword master.” He held out his hand. “I train all the soldiers in the Astaril military, a whole lot of ambitious middle class first born sons…and one successful knight.”


    “That’s where I know you from.” Judd shook his hand. “You were part of my two week training stint before I left.”


    “Not sure what good myself or the other masters did before you left,” Everid admitted, “and I have to say, around the tables afterwards, we didn’t give you very good odds.”


    Judd chuckled and nodded. “I might have heard something like that.”


    “We were wrong and a good thing too.” Everid sighed and shook his head. “We’ll do some basic training of these louts here and equip them as best we can. On the journey south we’ll get some more training in for what it’s worth.”


    “It could save their lives.”


    “Honestly,” Everid put his hands on his hips, “we could use more experienced officers. Sure we’ll have grunts and foot soldiers but I wish we had more who knew the lay of the land and even though we won’t be primarily fighting monsters, we could still encounter some.”


    “I’ll provide whatever knowledge and assistance I can.” Judd promised.


    “Your being here, leading the fight, is an assistance that we cannot begin to calculate,” Everid insisted, “but if you want to visit the barracks where I will be overseeing basic training, you’d be more than welcome.”


    “Of course I will make every effort.” Judd nodded.


    “Thank you, Sir LaMogre.” Everid bowed then turned and stomped down the stairs. “Knock it off before I knock your heads off!”


    Judd followed Verne inside, glancing over his shoulder.


    “Hero worship getting to you?” Verne asked.


    “What if they die?” Judd murmured. “What if any of them die?”


    “They know the risk.”


    “I didn’t.” Judd eyed Verne sadly. “I mean I knew I could die but when I set out, I thought with a sword in my hand and two weeks of training beneath my belt, I was invincible.”


    “Then maybe that’s the message you need to give when you visit the barracks.” Verne shrugged at him then folded her arms at Judd’s sigh. “Judd, we need these men. Not just want for the sake of it.” They climbed the stairs to the throne room’s doors. “You heard Everid. Grunts and foot soldiers but what we need are experienced officers.”


    “I’ve already suggested that you’re in charge of the archers,” the servants opened the doors and they walked into the throne room where the bustle of war planning only seemed to increase with fervency, “Suvau will be an excellent foot soldier leader and Giordi…”


    “Arm him with a cart load of lutes?”


    “You said he was halfway decent with a bow.”


    “Halfway is a long way from the front lines,” Verne licked her lips, “besides…I would prefer for him not to be there with me.”


    Judd scrunched his face and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Verne…you’re going to have to tell him.”


    “I know,” she admitted and he glanced at her, surprised, “but by the time I plucked up the nerve, he’d left with Suvau. Anyway, I think something like that should wait until after the battle.”


    “You mean if and when you are dead and don’t have to deal?” Judd put his hand on her shoulder as Verne looked away, uncomfortable and tense. “Verne, what if he dies and you never got to tell him?”


    “You told Aalis,” Verne said, her tone brittle and filled with pain, “does it hurt any less?”


    Judd closed his eyes and nodded. “You’re right…I’m such a hypocrite. Take it to the grave, Verne.”


    “Not before I’ve put Rylan in his.” Verne retorted.


    “To get through to him, we’re going to need more soldiers,” they turned to the doors to see a young guard hurrying towards them, “what’s this?”


    “Sword master Everid wanted to give you a recruitment estimate.” He said, thrusting the piece of paper towards Judd, figures scrawled on it in black.


    “Thank you.” Judd took the paper to where Caste was scribbling on his slate. “Volunteer numbers.”


    “Excellent.” Caste studied the numbers and wrote them down. “What’s the difference between the two figures?”


    “I think one is for complete novices and the other, volunteers with some experience.”


    Caste grimaced. “That’s a big numerical difference.”


    “One even Giordi could calculate.” Verne groaned. “Even with all able bodied souls in Astaril given a sword, without experience or training, they’ll bolt or worse, hurt themselves and their own side.”


    “They need more time to train.”


    “Actually they need more leaders to direct them,” Judd paused with a deep frown on his face, “and I might just know where we can find some.”


    All the prisoners in the castle dungeon were unaware of what went on beyond the walls of their containment. No sound travelled through the thick stone and only if the door to the top of the stairs opened and someone happened to be walking past at the time, did anything filter down from above. The greatest opportunity they had of hearing any news was when their prison rations were delivered but even then, the guards were rather tight lipped.


    When there was a heavy tread on the stairs, not long after their rations had already been delivered, all the prisoners could not miss hearing it and looked up, anxiously anticipating a change to their isolated and confined existence.


    Judd LaMogre stepped off the bottom stair, leaving his archer behind him as he walked into the prison. He hadn’t been there before and glanced in the cells to see who was imprisoned where.


    “You’ve come down here yourself,” he heard a rather embittered voice say on his left, “instead of sending your Order of the Grail lapdog, LaMogre?”


    Judd turned to Cleric Rodel whose eyes held a great deal of contempt and a solid dose of fear in them. “You will show Caste Undern the respect due as a deacon of the Order,” he said firmly, “and you will address me as Sir LaMogre.”


    Rodel stood up, jaw falling open. “You? A knight! That’s…unfathomable! Unthinkable! Unreasonable!”


    “Unstoppable and unescapable.” Judd responded then turned his back on the cleric, facing the two cells filled with Fort Mavour soldiers. They were all a little scruffy and rumpled though, he reasoned, in far better condition than if they’d had to suffer Fort Mavour’s dungeon.


    “You’re a knight,” Captain Chael said, his sideburns wiry and out of control, “congratulations.” His tone was flat. His words were respectful without gushing. “Sir Rylan must be very proud.”


    “Garo Rylan declared war on Astaril.” The men in the cells, who had been determined not to look as though they were listening, though they could hardly avoid doing so, all stood and turned to Judd.


    Chael closed his eyes and shook his head. “No…no, I cannot believe it.”


    “You heard the rumours and the projections of his becoming king one day.”


    “Of course,” Chael exclaimed, “but why would he waste lives in war when, due to his renewed marriage to Princess Genovieve, he will claim the throne like Rocheveron has.”


    Sir LaMogre had to concentrate hard to swallow, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Princess Genovieve was found dead in her chambers the morning after you brought her before the King.”


    Chael’s usually ruddy face paled to deathly white. “I swear nothing that we did to her would have fatally harmed her.”


    “I believe it was Garo Rylan who killed her.”


    The men in the cells whispered urgently to each other while Chael held Judd’s gaze and shook his head. “No…that’s absurd! Why take away his solid claim to the throne?”


    “Because…he confessed it was meant to be me who died.” His words sucked the sound out of the room. Judd held Chael’s gaze, hurting so much that all he wanted to do was scream endlessly and tear his heart out of his chest. Judd licked his lips. “Aalis…Princess Genovieve was able to save me using those abilities you attributed to being contaminated by tainted water. I think she knew Garo Rylan would use her to claim the throne…and wanted me to stop that from happening.”


    “You?”


    Judd nodded. “I will be leading the forces of Astaril and any loyal knights and their soldiers south to confront Rylan and his soldiers,” Chael’s brow furrowed even further as Judd added, “and I am offering positions of leadership as officers to each of your soldiers and, of course, to yourself, to aide in our fight.” He knew he had everyone’s attention as he continued. “Those who do so will be pardoned for the offense that put them in these cells.”


    “Those who survive, you mean…” A bold soldier from the back muttered.


    Captain Chael glared at the man as Judd unlocked the first cell door and opened it. Chael stepped out but held up his hand that no one else should follow.


    “A word, Sir LaMogre?” He asked and Judd nodded, leading him to the far corner of the dungeon, their voices lowered to the softest whispers. “You must know that this endeavour of yours will only end in the slaughter of the military of Astaril.”


    “We’d stand a better chance with you and your men.” Judd urged but Chael shook his head.


    “No, it’s folly I tell you. Sir Garo Rylan commands the entire might of the wall forts. Sir Fereak, Sir Donimede and Sir Egrette are all bound to Rylan out of loyalty and necessity. They rely on each other and trust the other to pull their weight. Their bonds are thicker than blood and stronger than the decrepit decay of the monarchy. Each one of them is a warrior and they have trained their soldiers to be the same. There are more of them and they are far better fighters than those in the northern forts, even than Fort Bastil.” Captain Chael’s tone was urgent and insistent. “Judd…forgive me, Sir LaMogre, in light of how many will die and the inevitable success of Garo Rylan, convince King Rocheveron to step down. Don’t waste lives.”


    Judd paused, considering Chael’s words. “It would certainly be the least lives lost,” he admitted, “but before you make your choice, know this, that Rylan threatened to open the gates to his Arena, the gates to the bailies and the gates to the city, allowing monsters to pour into Terra.” Chael opened his mouth to protest but no words came out. “He had no compunction about using the might of Maul as leverage, letting countless innocents die on top of anyone who picked up a sword against him.” Judd put his hand on Chael’s shoulder. “He was able to kill Nicolin when the heir to the throne discovered how Garo Rylan was…abusing his sister.”


    “Genovieve?” Judd nodded. Chael closed his eyes and moaned. “And I delivered her to him…”


    “You delivered a supposed witch to the King,” Judd cleared his throat, “in the end, Aalis did what she thought she had to do. She died for what she believed in.”


    Captain Chael opened his eyes and gazed at Judd. “Hard to argue against conviction like that.” He nodded and turned back to the cells. “Soldiers of Fort Mavour, Sir LaMogre has given us a choice to fight for the throne of Astaril against Garo Rylan and the might of the south. I have chosen to stand with Sir LaMogre but I won’t order a single one of you to do the same. We were ordered onto our last mission with no choice and poor information and ended up in prison. This time, the choice is yours.”


    “You ought to know,” Judd held up his hand as Arsch and Kipre went to take a step forward, “staying in your cells could lead to your freedom should Garo Rylan take the throne. But if you choose not to fight and risk being killed, and the throne is victorious, you will endure the punishment for which you were first imprisoned.”


    Arsch and Kipre glanced at each other then stepped out of the cell, going down on one knee before Judd. “Our sword, when we’ve earned enough trust to bear one again, is to fight for you, Sir LaMogre.” Arsch said strongly.


    “I’ll be glad to have your experience and leadership.” Judd replied firmly. “Take yourselves up the stairs where Verne will lead you to Everid, sword master who has some eager recruits who need as much expertise as you can instil in them.”


    “Sir!” Kipre saluted and he and Arsch led every single one of Fort Mavour’s soldiers out of the cells. Captain Chael turned and clasped Judd’s hand, a wordless agreement and apology in one gesture. Judd looked at the opened doors to the cells and breathed a sigh of relief. He turned follow Chael up the stairs when he heard his name called out.


    Cleric Rodel was at the bars of his cell, eyeing the stairs with wistful longing. “Sir LaMogre,” he said again and Judd wondered that he didn’t choke on his title, “what about me?”


    Judd eyed him sadly. “I am a warrior and a soldier. You are an officer of the Order of the Grail. Your fate is not within my power to control or influence.”


    He turned and left Rodel in his cell, climbing the stairs nimbly to find Verne waiting at the top.


    “Every single soldier,” Judd breathed out in relief, “I hope Everid takes advantage of what they have to offer. I thought you were going to take them to the barracks?”


    “I had another guard do that.” Verne leaned close. “We have a problem.”


    “Just the one? You’ve solved all the others?” Judd asked, still buoyed by the high of knowing that the Fort Mavour soldiers would stand with them instead of rotting in their cells.


    Verne’s eyes were deadly serious. “You need an officer of the Grail to go with you.”


    “I want Caste.”


    “Therein lies the problem.”