The Outlaw's Blade: Part 2
Legends of the Revolution, Vol. 2
Part 1 | Part 2
Towering over the city of Seabank - with its rustic cobbled streets and quaint buildings of stone, brick, timber, and thatch - lay Suthfort: perched unceremoniously on a rocky bluff jutting upwards out of the Eastward Sea. Squat and oval-shaped, the ungainly stone edifice had long ago earned the nickname The Cairn for its inhospitable and foreboding appearance. It had been constructed in ages past to protect the interior waterways of the Avenlor Lowcountry from sea raiders of old.
In addition to serving as a menacing deterrent against waterborne incursion from Avenlor’s Royal Navy, Suthfort was the current headquarters for Lorick Ashwood’s regiment of Lowcountry Ranger militia. At that very moment, the morning after their discreet rendezvous at The Sea Devil tavern along Seabank’s lively waterfront, the colonel was taking council in his office with Major Keziah Barron and a somewhat disgruntled Gray Cavalier dispatch rider: a middle-aged man by the name of Jonas Nichols.
“With respect, sir, my Lord Rowan will not be pleased with this weakening of Seabank’s defenses,” the cavalryman was arguing.
“He would prefer for you to return emptyhanded?” Ashwood countered.
“What he would prefer, Colonel, is for me to return with General Tarenton and his four thousand Regulars.”
“And if Tarenton were here I’m sure he would be all too happy to oblige. But, as you can see, the good general is nowhere to be found, so Sir Rowan will have to settle for the company of Rangers I can spare.”
“How is it that nobody knows where General Tarenton is?” Jonas Nichols sneered. “What kind of feckless circus are you in charge of here?”
Startled by the breathtaking lack of decorum being shown to his commanding officer, Keziah Barron took an angry, involuntary step towards the indignant cavalryman from his place at the colonel’s shoulder.
Lorick Ashwood calmly raised an arm to still his second-in-command, while fixing the Gray Cavalier with a hard, penetrating stare. “It must be quite the affront to your honor, Mr. Nichols, having to answer to a lowlife cretin such as myself. War, however, makes strange bedfellows of us all. Need I remind you that it was none other than your revered Sir Rowan who gave me command of Suthfort?”
“Of course not…sir.” Nichols grumbled begrudgingly.
“Good! I’m glad we could resolve that bit of unpleasantness.” Ashwood stroked his close-cropped, bronze colored beard in a satisfied, contemplative manner. “Now, to your question of why nobody knows where General Tarenton is at this precise moment: That would be because, as you so acutely observed, there is indeed a feckless circus being conducted. It is, however, not being conducted by myself or my Rangers. We are all of us here painfully aware of the general’s…shortcomings, shall we say, yes?”
Again, the morose cavalryman gave his reluctant assent.
“I thought so,” the colonel continued. “The last time either myself - or Major Barron here - were in sight of General Tarenton was several days ago, as his backside disappeared from view after he fled the field of battle against an expeditionary contingent of Lord Wallerden’s army. He was heading west, but has not been heard from since. I sent couriers out this morning in the hopes that they will discover his camp, and relay Sir Rowan’s wishes.
“In the meantime, he will be forced to make do with the one hundred militiamen I’m sending with you. If he is unhappy with this arrangement, he is more than welcome to make his concerns known to me. I suspect, however, that he will be understanding of my predicament. I trust you find all of that satisfactory, Mr. Nichols?”
For the third time in as many moments, Jonas Nichols grudgingly agreed with the lowlife cretin who had undeservedly found himself in this position of superiority.
“I’m glad to hear it. Major Barron will muster your companions, and they will report to you directly. Now, get your insubordinate ass out of my bloody sight.”
Colonel Lorick Ashwood strolled along the ramparts atop The Cairn in an effort to clear his thoughts after his contentious meeting with the arrogant cavalryman.
Ashwood’s pardon - as well as his subsequent commission - at the hands of Sir Rowan had caused no small amount of consternation amongst the leaders of the revolutionary forces. After all, they argued, between the two of them, the avaricious brigand and his bloodthirsty father had inflicted a savage reign of terror throughout southern Avenlor several decades long. Impending war or not, Lorick Ashwood was one man they fervently believed was not worthy of redemption.
Despite his casual, carefree manner during his encounter with the Gray Cavalier, the unceasing lack of respect and proper deference shown towards his rank and position within the Colonial Confederation irked Ashwood to no end. He had proven his competence and loyalty time and again, only to be constantly slandered and denigrated by the damnable likes of the haughty Jonas Nichols. Meanwhile, blundering halfwits like General Tarenton were forgiven their many, many easily avoidable transgressions.
Even with all these thoughts swirling bitterly inside his head, Ashwood kept his expression impassive, if not outright friendly, as he meandered past his fellow Rangers stationed along The Cairn’s high walls: perilously situated above the roiling Eastward Sea far below. He inhaled the pleasant, saltwater aroma permeating the air, and relished the refreshing breeze that blew in from the water; allowing it to ripple through loose strands of his reddish hair, the rest of which was tied back into a neat ponytail. The tails of his leather coat swirled about his knees with each assured step; the cutlass hanging in the scabbard at his waist clanking continuously against his thigh.
Contrary to the scorn and disdain heaped upon Lorick Ashwood from most of his allies, the Lowcountry Rangers practically worshipped the man. His past sins meant little to those under his direct command: They considered their colonel to be nearly as daring and gallant as the great Sir Rowan himself! The militiamen cheerfully saluted and doffed their caps at their commanding officer when he strode by. For his part, Ashwood stopped to chat with several of them - inquiring after their families and their wellbeing.
The bell in the fort’s lookout tower began to peal out an abrupt, strident alarm. Ashwood dashed across the suddenly chaotic ramparts, careful to avoid colliding with his soldiers that were frantically hurrying to and fro. He reached the cramped, spiral stairwell leading up to the observation post and took the weathered steps two at a time.
“What is it?!” he demanded of the watchman. “What do you see?!”
“Sails, sir! A fleet of them rounding the headland to the north!”
“A fleet, you say?! How many ships?”
“I count at least five, Colonel, sir! Looks like all brigantines.”
“What colors do they fly: Royal Navy?”
“I don’t rightly know,” the lookout demurred. “I don’t recognize them.”
“It’s alright, man, don’t fret. Let me have the glass.” The colonel took the brass piece and held it up to his right eye.
“God’s body, I don’t believe it!” Lorick Ashwood exclaimed in disbelief. “Those ships are flying my father’s colors!”
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A tasty cliffhanger, Mr Tatter! Part 3 (and more) awaited with bated breath...