The Outlaw's Blade: Part 1
Legends of the Revolution, Vol. 2
Part 1 | Part 2
Before the war broke out Lorick Ashwood was a notorious highwayman, and occasional murderer. His criminal career had been long and illustrious: Lorick’s father was the infamous pirate Black Oren - he was practically an outlaw from the moment he came into the world. However, when it was time for him to seek his own fortune, Lorick took to raiding the highways and byways of the Avenlor Lowcountry rather than becoming a buccaneer like his patriarch. The two of them built a formidable criminal empire along the country’s southern coast.
Lorick would first cross paths with Sir Rowan of Suthland when the young knight inherited his birthright upon the passing of his father. A hapless and ineffectual lord, the man had allowed the brigands to run roughshod over his lands for years. Rowan was determined to use whatever resources he had available to bring Black Oren and his progeny to heel: Thus, the Gray Cavaliers were formed.
Devised as a dragoon regiment, the elite cavalry troop was well suited to the task of running down the elusive band of marauders. It was less than a year before Lorick Ashwood found himself at the mercy of Rowan’s swept hilt rapier and its keen blade. Even less time passed before Black Oren, longtime scourge of southern Avenlor’s barrier islands, lay dead at the knight’s feet after a foolhardy attempt to rescue his son from the stout dungeons of Seabank.
When he learned of his father’s demise, Lorick swore a blood oath that he would one day have his vengeance.
Nine months later the southern lords declared their independence from Avenlor’s oppressive monarchy, and war erupted across the land.
Colonel Lorick Ashwood - commanding officer of the Lowcountry Ranger militia - nursed a tankard of ale while digesting the news contained within the dispatch he had just received. Against all odds, Sir Rowan had wrenched the town of Arthum from the clutches of Gremstahl mercenaries occupying it on behalf of Avenlor’s royal forces.
“What news from the nobleman?” inquired Ashwood’s second-in-command, Major Keziah Barron, as he slid into the booth opposite his superior. He laid his saber on the table next to Ashwood’s basket-hilted cutlass, and waved at the nearest serving girl to bring him ale.
“What makes you so certain this missive is from him? Maybe General Tarenton is writing to thank us for our bold maneuvers that protected his blundering hide from being outflanked by the Royal Lancers.”
Barron rolled his eyes. “You and I both know that damnable man would never admit to making a mistake. Besides, I saw the Cavalier galloping through the town. There’s only one man in all of Avenlor who has the authority to use them as his personal errand boys. So, what does he want?”
Ashwood slid the parchment across the worn and pockmarked slab of wood. He carefully studied the younger man’s lean, angular face - watching intently while Barron’s hazel colored eyes flicked back and forth as he absorbed the message in the dim, smoky light of the waterfront tavern.
“God’s body!” his subordinate exclaimed. “Arthum captured, and Brondheim defected to our side?! Can this all be true?!”
“I have no reason to assume otherwise. It’s written in Rowan’s hand, and it was stamped with his seal.”
“But he really wants us to abandon the city?”
“Not us.” Ashwood paused while a foaming tankard was delivered to Barron by a plain - yet buxom - tavern wench.
“What you gents schemin’ about over here?” she inquired precociously.
“Ah, Mary, we’re just trying to decide which of us is going to sweep you off your feet and take you away from all this,” Ashwood teased.
“Lorick Ashwood, you been sayin’ that for years now: since back before you was an honest man. Don’t you dare be gettin’ my hopes up now that there’s a proper war on!” Mary chided. She ran a light finger up and down the colonel’s sleeve. “And don’t you dare think I’ve forgotten about those nights we used to spend together when you was a rough and tumble outlaw either. Might there be a chance we could find out if the ol’ spark remains, eh?”
Keziah Barron choked on his ale, while a slight flush crept its away across Ashwood’s face.
“Oh, sure, you’re a big, important man now: what with the great Sir Rowan himself relyin’ on ya, but I haven’t found me a man yet what gives me the same sort o’ thrills you did,” Mary continued to chatter roguishly. “However, I’m sure a great fellow like yourself can afford to frolic with finer trollops than poor, ugly Mary down at The Sea Devil.”
“Those were good days, Mary,” Ashwood agreed, more or less nonplussed. “But I think you’re going to give the poor major over there an aneurysm if you keep up this line of conversation.”
The flirtatious wench winked at Barron - beet red by this point, and barely able to contain his drink - before sashaying away with a chuckle.
“Quite a colorful woman,” the younger officer finally managed to murmur.
“Colorful indeed.” Ashwood grinned. “Now, back to business: To answer your question, Sir Rowan’s orders are for General Tarenton to reinforce him in Arthum.”
“Doesn’t he know that we have no bloody idea where the man is?!” The last time either of them had laid eyes on the general was a week prior - when he was beating a hasty retreat westward, while the Rangers stood their ground and repulsed several companies of Royal Lancers sent to harry Tarenton as he fled.
“I’m quite certain he doesn’t know. Hence, why I’m holding this dispatch instead of the good general himself.”
“Ah, of course,” Barron demurred. “What are we to do then, sir?”
Ashwood spread his hands apart, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I’ll have to send out messengers in the morning to find the man. In the meantime, the Ranger’s orders are to continue occupying the town.”
An abrupt shudder wormed its way through Ashwood’s being as he involuntarily recalled his time imprisoned inside the city of Seabank’s cold, dank dungeons. The spasm did not escape Keziah Barron’s eagle-eyed gaze.
“Rather cruel of the man, wasn’t it?”
“What was rather cruel of who?!” Ashwood inquired sharply.
“Don’t you think it was rather cruel of Sir Rowan to give you charge of the garrison where he locked you away? Not to mention the place where he killed your father.”
“Listen here, Barron: I was a right fiend in those days, and so was Black Oren. That man deserved his death several times over. There was a time I was bent on revenge, but Sir Rowan has earned my loyalty with the trust he displayed by giving me command of the Rangers. I’ll not hear another word spoken against him.”
“As you say, sir,” Major Keziah Barron muttered sourly. “You’re a better man than I, that’s for certain.”
“Perhaps you’ll understand one day. We must all pay for our sins sooner or later.”
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I'd keep reading this, for sure. Some nice characterization for Ashwood, even in this short section.
A fun start!