The Aqueducts of Avenlor
Legends of the Revolution, Vol. 1
The cargo was delivered to a city on the coast and loaded onto narrowboats for transport to the interior, via the country of Avenlor’s vast system of interconnected waterways. A small contingent of soldiers from Gremstahl - a militaristic nation to the east, famed for its mercenary armies - arrived with the supplies. It would be their duty to assure the goods were safely conveyed up the canals. Their expectation was that it would be an uneventful journey, for they believed they traveled well within Royalist controlled territory.
The mercenaries stowed their arms and armor below decks: Basking in the pleasantly warm weather as a light breeze ruffled their colorful doublets and trousers. As much as they did not expect trouble, they nevertheless kept their katzbalger short swords belted around their waists as a visible deterrent - on the slim chance a daring band of highwaymen would make a foolhardy attempt at hijacking the boats.
Unbeknownst to the relaxed band of waterborne soldiers, the dashing knight Sir Rowan and his company of Gray Cavaliers had punched a hole through Royalist lines a scant few leagues to the south. Their daring assault was a major victory for the revolutionary forces, cutting off vital avenues of supply and bisecting the enemy front. They now held the town guarding the Hinterland Crossroads, and that meant - at least for the time being - the guerilla troops could wreak havoc on the Royalist lands.
Rowan sat alone in his wing of the sprawling manor house he had commandeered for his headquarters, poring over maps of the surrounding countryside by candlelight. His men had won a great victory, but their days of being safely garrisoned in Arthum were numbered. They would have to make the most of their temporary advantage. An abrupt, sharp rap at the sturdy oak door jolted him from his contemplation.
“Yes? What is it?” Rowan’s weary disposition caused him to sound somewhat more vexed than he actually felt. His squire entered dutifully, seemingly nonplussed by his lord’s apparent irritation.
“Sir, the captive officer from Gremstahl wishes to have words with you.”
“What could he possibly want to say that I would be interested in hearing?”
“I don’t rightly know, my lord. He will not speak of it to anyone, save yourself.”
Rowan sighed. His marauding preparations would have to wait. “Very well, let us go and speak to the damned foreign fool.”
The damned foreign fool was Leonhardt Brondheim. A lifelong soldier - and rather famous in his home country - Colonel Brondheim and his men were among the vast number of mercenaries hired over from Gremstahl to fight for the Avenlish Royalists. It was they who held Arthum when Rowan and the Gray Cavaliers overran the village. Now, Brondheim, along with his surviving soldiers, was confined to the town hall.
Rowan stood before his vanquished foe, his curiosity hidden behind an inscrutable expression on his handsome face. The knight cut a gallant figure in his gray leather tunic, with a deep blue half-cape draped over his left shoulder. Rowan’s hand rested lightly on the silver pommel of his rapier, while shrewd eyes the color of storm clouds appraised the dour looking, middle aged man slumped over in front of him.
“Well, Brondheim? Here I am. What have you to say?”
“You are a worthy adversary, Sir Rowan.” The foreign officer spoke in nearly flawless Avenlish, yet the guttural accent of his homeland clung slightly to his words. The man was obviously well educated. “Yet you must know your position here is precarious, to say the least. Lord Wallerden will hear of your victory any day now, and he will soon move to retake the town.”
“Bully for him. Our own General Tarenton is on the move. He will intercept Wallerden.”
Brondheim expelled a derisive snort. “You expect Tarenton to save you? The man couldn’t fight his way out of a canvas sack! He has been soundly defeated time and again. His only successes have ever come from the edge of your sword. Wallerden will run roughshod over the dunce. No: Tarenton cannot help you. Perhaps I can, however.”
“What are you on about, man? Speak plainly!”
“As I said, your position is precarious. You have less than a thousand men. You can fortify and hold Arthum for a little while, but you have very few cannons to work with, and not enough provisions to withstand a protracted siege. You will, inevitably, be overrun.”
“We have a difficult fight ahead of us, is that your point?”
“Not difficult: impossible.”
Rowan crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I fail to see why our plans should concern you.”
Brondheim sat quietly for several moments. Rowan sensed something was troubling his erstwhile adversary. At long last, the graying warrior let out a resigned sigh and spoke. “My men and I have all agreed that we want to defect.”
“You what?!” Rowan was incredulous. This was the last thing he expected from the stalwart soldier. Leonhardt Brondheim’s military exploits - particularly against those fighting for independence from Avenlor’s monarchy - were the stuff of legend. “Is this some sort of ruse? Gain our trust and then play us false at the first opportunity?”
“‘Tis no trick,” Brondheim assured.
“Then why do this? You mercenaries have been paid handsomely to slaughter my comrades.”
“Our reasons are our own, but I swear on my honor that we will be your faithful allies henceforth.”
“How can I trust you, if you are intent on betraying your current masters?”
Brondheim’s brown eyes hardened. “The Avenlish are not our masters. They pay us to fight their wars for them, but they do not own us. If you must know, I have been following your exploits for some time, and I have long desired to meet you on the field of battle. Now, having done so, I’ve decided I would rather fight with you than against you.”
“Once more: Why should I trust you?”
The mercenary colonel shrugged. “That is entirely up to you. However, you’re going to want to hear what I have to say. It may very well change your fortunes in the battle to come.”
“I still don’t think this is wise…my lord,” Rowan’s squire hesitantly remarked. The knight regarded the sandy-haired youth bemusedly. The two of them were standing astride a rowboat that was roped bow to stern across a canal lined with flagstones.
“Yes, you’ve repeatedly made that clear, Wilkins. Brondheim insists, however, this is a vital resupply shipment for Royalist troops on the front line.”
“How do we know he’s telling the truth?”
“We don’t. We shall soon find out, though.”
“Should we not have brought more men?” The squire’s gaze flicked to either side of the canal, where four score of Gray Cavaliers were concealed within the overgrown trees and hedgerows lining the waterway.
“Brondheim assured me there are less than a hundred fifty Gremstahl mercenaries to contend with.” The skiff bobbed gently underneath them as Rowan continued to study the young man’s uncertain countenance. “Do you not trust my judgment, lad?”
“I do, my lord: Of course I do! ‘Tis Brondheim I don’t trust.”
“I’m not sure that I do either. But, if he is telling the truth, it is our duty to ensure those provisions not reach their destination. We have struck a mighty blow by taking Arthum. Now, we have a chance to create even more chaos. That is what we do: That is why we are here.”
“Yes, my lord. Forgive me.”
Rowan clapped his companion on the shoulder. “Not at all, faithful Wilkins! You are right to be wary. It shows sound judgment.”
The distinct tenor of conversation and laughter floated towards them from farther down the canal. The first narrowboat drifted into view - towed along by a muscular draft horse that was hitched to its prow by a length of thick, sturdy rope.
“Here we go,” Sir Rowan muttered resolutely. Both he and Wilkins each brandished a pair of flintlock pistols. They steadied themselves as the rowboat rocked along with their movements.
Colorfully dressed Gremstahl mercenaries leading tethered horses down the towpath abruptly reined their massive animals in. Shouts of alarm erupted from the barges, and anchors were thrown overboard to hold the boats in position.
The ambling soldier at the very front of the procession regarded the two men and their obstructive dinghy with a perplexed expression on his bearded face.
“What is the meaning of this?!” he bellowed in heavily accented Avenlish.
“Gentlemen,” Rowan smoothly began, “these boats and provisions now belong to the Colonial Confederation. If you leave them behind - and disembark peaceably - no harm will come to you.”
There was a moment of tense silence, followed by derisive laughter rippling through the mercenary ranks.
“I think not, silly man!” The bearded soldier guffawed. He drew the pistol that was thrust into his belt, and his fellow mercenaries followed suit. Rowan and Wilkins wordlessly leveled their own firearms and discharged them. Musket fire belched from within the trees along the shoreline, as the hidden Gray Cavaliers made their presence known.
Chaos erupted up and down the canal. Gremstahl mercenaries that survived the opening salvo exchanged hasty volleys with their invisible assailants. Rowan crouched down to retrieve his other brace of pistols tucked away in the bottom of the skiff, bracing himself as the vessel careened violently from the sudden motion. Standing above his master, Wilkins cried out and clutched his chest. Blood sluiced between the squire’s grasping fingers, and he pitched over the side of the boat.
“Wilkins!” Rowan bawled above the calamitous din of musket and pistol discharges. The rowboat strained against its moorings, threatening to capsize and dump the knight into the cold water. Several garishly clothed foreign soldiers were sprinting towards him down the towpath. Rowan leapt clear of his precarious situation for the solid footing of the packed dirt avenue. He squeezed the triggers of both pistols simultaneously: Smoke and flame belched forth from the barrels. He relinquished his grip on the firearms, brandishing his elegant rapier and dagger, satisfied that his volley had cut down a pair of the mercenaries.
Hemmed in by the vegetation on one side and the canal on the other, the towpath was narrow enough that only two at a time could assail him. Steel clashed on steel, and blades flashed in the Sun. Rowan whipped his slender sword around with skillful alacrity to keep his attackers at bay: He slashed one man across the scalp - sending him tumbling into the channel - and buried his dagger in the windpipe of another. Rowan dragged the short blade clear, blood and ichor spurting in its wake.
He managed to block simultaneous thrusts from a pair of katzbalgers when the next two mercenaries rushed forward. The duo continued to assault Rowan in unison. The knight danced backwards, fending off their strikes as he moved. He managed to sidestep a jab and plunged his dagger into the assailant’s temple. His victim dropped like an unwieldy sack of flour, taking Rowan’s offhand blade with him. The dead man’s compatriot was thrown off balance as he stumbled over the corpse: Rowan opened his belly with the rapier’s keen edge.
Sharp pain lanced through the knight’s left shoulder as the lone surviving mercenary facing him lashed out with a short sword. Blood streamed through Rowan’s leather tunic, pouring down his arm. The two men stood several feet apart and momentarily considered one another. All around them the clamor of battle was fading: The Gray Cavaliers had swarmed the narrowboats, and were cutting the defenders to pieces.
Rowan’s adversary was none other than the bearded soldier who had been leading the cavalcade of barges.
“How did you know we were coming?” the Gremstahlian asked.
“Brondheim,” Rowan curtly replied.
“I see. He was supposed to send a detachment to meet us when we docked at Fordshire. I suppose that means Arthum has fallen into your hands if Brondheim has betrayed us.”
“Yes.”
“Ah, well, it won’t be that way for long. The armies of Avenlor are too strong. They will drive you out sooner or later.”
“They will try. Until then, we shall run them a merry chase.”
The mercenary chuckled. “I have no doubt. Even in Gremstahl we have heard tell of you Gray Cavaliers. Be warned, though, more of my countrymen are on their way - thousands more. Your little revolution is doomed, methinks.”
“Pity that you won’t be around to see the end of it,” Rowan coolly responded. He stalked forward, brandishing his rapier with a flourish. His slender blade clashed with his opponent’s shorter, thicker katzbalger once, twice, three times. On the fourth strike, Rowan dexterously rolled his sword through the foreign mercenary’s defenses and cut his throat out.
Waterlogged corpses and crimson hued water slapped against wooden hulls, while the victorious guerilla troops transferred cargo off the barges and on to wagons they had brought from Arthum. There were twelve boats in all - their holds packed full of weapons, ammunition, and food supplies. When their task was accomplished the Gray Cavaliers set fire to what remained. Dusk was settling in, and the burning vessels lit up the darkening skyline like a grim and fiery beacon.
Rowan scoured the battlefield for Wilkins’ body, to no avail. The lad had been a loyal and dutiful squire: He deserved better than a dank, watery grave. The knight reluctantly gave up his search when the heavily laden wagons started to rumble back towards Arthum. Rowan swung into the saddle and spurred on his bay horse to catch up with the supply train.
Overhead, the storm clouds that had been gathering all day long finally burst open, and a steady, soaking rain cascaded down from the heavens.
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I like this a lot. Swamp Fox vibes for sure. Expand on it.