Story #177 - The Red

The Red

“The Ven doesn't want you!” A voice screamed down at him from the top of the gray walls, but Jack Burrows didn't move. Keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, he spoke the words again.

“I come in application to the Light, humbly begging to serve. Open the gates, and let me join the charge against the Red.” His voice was strong and steady, despite four days hard riding to arrive at Venald's Keep. He knew the riders would be leaving soon, and was also well aware that a supplicant could not be turned away, should he repeat the proper phrase three times.

That had been two.

“Are you daft, man? We don't want your kind up here!” Another voice this time, from his left, but Jack ignored it. From their distance atop the wall, they had no way to know what “his kind” was, though if they did, he was sure they'd been even less pleased than they were now. Easterners were not known for their bravery in battle, and most men of the other Three Points refused to gamble or drink with an Easterner on a matter of principle. Jack was one of the few with principles of his own, but that hardly mattered now.

“I come in application to the Light,” he spoke again, more firmly, “humbly begging to serve. Open the gates, and let me join the charge against the Red.”

There was silence from the cat-callers on the walls for a moment, and then the great gates to Venald's Keep began to grind open. Massive, Ortier metal-work dominated both halves of the stone gates, and legend had it that the Keep had never been breached, at least on the man-side of the Wound. From the stories he had read as a child, and the few men who had come home from fighting the Red, the Lands had very nearly been overrun several times.

Three guards met him as the gate ground to a halt, one motioning him forward across the threshold. With a deep breath, Jack moved quickly across the wide bridge and into the Keep itself.

Darkness swallowed him as he entered. The sun had hung low in the autumn sky outside the Keep, but inside, only torches cast light on the hard stones and men that lurked within. Each one he saw – man and stone alike – bore the scars of battle, and each looked as likely to give blood. It was said that men came to the Keep, but only corpses or warriors left.

“Up there.” The largest of the guards pointed to a small tower opening, and Jack could see steep stairs just inside. “Liegen with see you first, and then you'll come to the barracks for training.” Jack nodded and moved forward, but got the butt of the guard's pike in his leg at his first step. He stumbled, but threw out his hands to the rough stone wall just in time to keep him from a meal of dirt.

“You'll have to move faster than that, recruit.”

Jack didn't speak, but hurried up the tower. Fighting the Red had not been his first choice, but the murder of a father left few other options.

***

Leigen Vars Trelven was having a foul day.

Most of them were, at the Keep, but that only served to strength his resolve. His men were some of the best in the Lands, despite what standing armies and Kings might say. His master-at-arms had trained them in the ancient ways, ways that petty politicians and scheming monarchs had abandoned along with common sense years ago.

Today was foul thanks to a messenger from the Heart, demanding he return for the yearly council meeting. It was his only trip West during the entire year, and the one part of his duties within which he did not find a grim satisfaction. Part of it was the fact that he was prohibited from running any of the others at the council through with his sword, since not being able to kill something for more that a few days was a sure way to aggravate him.

He could not understand why the Landslord listened to such foolery from his advisers, and especially from men that were clearly plotting his death. One having an arm suddenly broken and a nose rearranged had earned Leigen his post at the Ven, one he had taken gladly.

The tramp of boots on his stairs told him another recruit was coming. There was always a spike in numbers just before a ride, and though most of the newcomers didn't make it back, they provided enough fodder for the Red that his real men could get their work done.

A sharp knock sounded at the door, and a moment later it opened, without waiting for his command. The man that entered was tall and lean, but held himself in way that said he had trained for it, rather than been given it by birth. The dark hair and tilted eyes marked him as an Easterner, something that didn't bother Leigin in the slightest. Here, all men were equal – equally able to squeal, bleed and die – and where they came from was of no matter.

“Name?” He asked coldly.

“Jack Burrows.” The man said in a strong voice.

“Occupation?”

“I was a barrelmaker, but I have no trade now. I serve only the Ven.”

“How admirable,” Leigen smiled broadly, “but we will decide that. Age?”

“Thirty-one.”

He sniffed. Old, but not so old he couldn't be useful. Maybe some of the younger ones could look up to this Jack Burrows, at least long enough to get them into the Wound.

“Get down to the barracks – left out of the tower, tall building with the thatched roof. Three minutes or the master there will beat you. Sammal – treat him with respect.”

Burrows nodded and then bolted from the room. He'd be beaten regardless, but that was the way of the Ven. At least he'd looked strong – he might just live through the Ride to take his oath.

- D