The Wild Mark
Vesian V
Drums beat a thunderous march as another warband reached Bolrog's camp. From atop his throne, the warlord watched in eager anticipation as two thousand warriors in iron helms and mail marched past him. At the head of their column was their king, Nuzduk, who had only recently pledged his allegiance to Bolrog. The great prize of his winter embassy, the alliance with Nuzduk's Red Skull orcs removed the last obstacle to his dominion over the northern lands. At the word of the Red Skulls' submission the other tribes had flocked to his banner, for they knew that to remain aloof meant that they would be the target of his spring campaign.
Nuzduk halted his march before Bolrog's throne with a mighty stomp, and his warriors shouted a halt as well. The king stood before Bolrog, looking up at him with narrowed yellow eyes. Bolrog felt his guards tense up, his sons Nakham and Yurban growled in anticipation of a betrayal. Bolrog subtly raised his hand as to warn them off. There would be no betrayal here today.
Nuzduk eyed Bolrog for a long moment, then slowly went to one knee. The older orc bowed his head in submission and raised his outstretched palms toward the throne. He lowered his forehead to touch the earth before them.
"I bow to you, Bolrog, King of the Black Hand," Nuzduk intoned, his voice booming even as he faced the ground. "My warriors will follow you into battle."
Bolrog grinned. "Rise, Nuzduk, King of the Red Skulls. We will shed blood together, and grow rich together. The weaklings of the southlands will break before us, and we will take what they have for ourselves. This is my promise to you."
Nuzduk stood up. He turned to his warriors behind him, his close guard clad in mail shirts and iron helms. They looked expectantly to him for orders, and he bellowed a war cry: "To war!"
His warriors roared back, beating on their shields and drumming their spears. War drums beat faster and the whole war camp seemed to shake as Bolrog's ten thousand warriors joined in. Outside the palisade, the snowbound trees shed their cold blankets as the winds of war whipped through their boughs. From atop his throne of bone, Bolrog grinned.
Later that night, in his tent, he was joined by his warlock Bralzok.
"We are almost ready," Bolrog declared excitedly as his faithful lieutenant entered. Bralzok bared his tusks in a wolfish smile.
"Medhoc is here," the warlock reported. Bolrog stood up from his seat.
"Show him in." he turned to the rear of his tent, where his sons waited. "Bring the prisoners."
Medhoc entered, a redhaired human in a plaid tunic and trousers, covered by gilded mail. He wore golden torcs on his arm, but his scabbard hung empty by his side, his broadsword surrendered to Bolrog's guards. The king of the Wildmen eye Bolrog cautiously, wary of both the orc king before him and the warlock at his side. Bralzok seated himself across from the two kings, tracing in the dirt with a wand of bone.
"What is it that you want, orc?" Medhoc demanded in the brash tongue of the Wildmen. He crossed his arms over his chest and puffed himself up, his steely blue eyes staring out over a bushy red mustache. This was Bolrog's most precarious alliance, and also the one he had invested the most in shoring up.
"I will not let it be said that I do not aid my allies," Bolrog began, and Medhoc's suspicious stare deepened. "If my enemies are to be your enemies, then your enemies must also be mine."
Medhoc shifted on his feet, eyeing the orc up and down. "You would fight the Raich this spring?" the king of the Wildmen asked. "What of the southrons? Have you postponed your campaign into the mark?"
"No, no," Bolrog assured him. "I will not fight the Raich."
"Then what do you promise, orc?" Medhoc demanded. "I cannot send my men to aid your cause while my ancestral enemies menace my people. My oppida are strongly built, but even the strongest fortress will fall unaided."
Bolrog raised his hands. "I will not fight the Raich," he continued, "For there are none left to fight. Nakham! The prisoners!"
His son and heir appeared, leading three prisoners before him, whom he shoved to the floor. All three were naked and bound at the hands and wrists. They were similarly blonde and blue-eyed, and like Medhoc were tall and fair. The foremost among them was a man of fifty, his blonde hair fading to gray and his face worn with age and scars. He collapsed on his knees before Medhoc, and the others fell beside him. They were young, a man and a woman, looking every inch their father's children, but likewise brought low along with the rest of their people.
"Aruman," Medhoc breathed, "at last you kneel before me."
"They were no match for my warriors," Bolrog boasted, puffing out his chest. "Their hill fort was easily taken and their people either put to the sword or made slaves. They will till our fields while your people march to war. As for these, I give the honors of ending the Raich's royal bloodline to you. The girl you may have as a wife, concubine, or just a toy for your men, I care not. These are my gifts to you as your lord and ally. So," he looked Medhoc in the eye. "Will you march to war with me?"
Medhoc nodded eagerly. Bolrog grinned back and him and dismissed all but Bralzok from the tent. The warlock leaned in close.
"We are prepared, my king." Bolrog took a deep breath. He had feared his plans ruined by a late spring blizzard, but the cold seemed to be fading as fast as it had come. In just a few more days, his army would be ready to march to war. Not against the few Wildmen and orc tribes that still held out against him, for he had greater plans. He looked out of his tent to the south, where somewhere over the darkened horizon lay the land that the Aquitains called the Mark d'Ouest, and beyond it, the Kingdom of Aquitaine itself.
Soon, it would all be his.
---
The town of Neupont was the only settlement in all of the Mark d'Ouest worthy of the name. Built on the site where a group of intrepid settlers had built a stone bridge over the rushing river, it was the gateway to the green lands of the Mark. It was here, in an inn called the Gate, that Vesian and Thibault had decided to stay the night.
The inn's common room was crowded, for settlers were pouring over the mountains with the dawning of a new spring. With them had come Vesian and Thibault, led by Sir Leoric de Toron, a prior of the order, and a handful of his retainers. The Mark was a wild frontier land, always in need of additional swords to guard its borders. The knights and their squires crowded together in one corner of the inn, watching the crowd of peddlers, settlers, and woodsmen jostle together for drinks.
"Another round!" called Sir Leoric to one of the beleaguered bar maids. He raised his empty mug of ale and shook it, but the call was not recognized over the buzz of the crowd. He waited a moment to see if it would be picked up, then proclaimed "Bah!" in disappointment.
"It's just too busy," Vesian said, and Leoric nodded in agreement.
"I'll go track one down in person," Leoric decided. He stood, leaning his sheathed sword against their table. It was a magnificent sword, forged from the finest steel and decorated with a griffon head pommel. It was also enchanted, and Vesian was quite envious of his superior's weapon. Leoric went off in search of the weapon.
"You could grab it and run," Thibault teased in Vesian's ear. "In the dark, he'd never find you."
