Behold, A Man!
"This Baron Halsten guy was nothing if not meticulous." I pondered out loud as I looked through the many possessions and stacks of paperwork that the former nobleman had accumulated during his time as the lord of Marburg and its surrounding lands.
The ledgers alone numbered in the dozens, each bound in quality leather and written in a careful hand that suggested the Baron personally oversaw much of the fortress's administration. Trade manifests detailed shipments of iron ore from the mountain passes, grain from lowland villages, and salt fish from coastal settlements. Tax records showed a methodical approach to revenue collection that would have impressed any royal treasurer.
"The man documented everything," Johana observed, lifting a scroll that detailed the fortress's defensive improvements over the past three years. "Every stone placed, every crossbow quarrel stockpiled, every sack of grain stored for siege."
I nodded, examining what appeared to be a detailed map of the surrounding region marked with patrol routes, beacon positions, and safe houses. The Baron had clearly understood the strategic value of his position—controlling not just the fortress itself, but the flow of information and supplies through the entire mountain pass.
A particular document caught my attention: correspondence with other Tudor lords discussing coordination of their defenses. The letters revealed a network of mutual support agreements, shared intelligence about Midlandish troop movements, and contingency plans for evacuation of civilians should any fortress fall.
"Look at this," I said, holding up a letter dated just two weeks prior. "Baron Halsten was expecting a relief force by sea. A fleet of ships under Sir Francis of Blackmoor."
Johana frowned. "We would have never seen such reinforcements coming if the siege had lasted longer and they had arrived on time. None of the nobles on our side committed any of their own navies to the siege or hired any mercenary fleets to blockade the fortress."
"We'd be sitting ducks essentially, and they could simply bombard us from a distance." I concluded, cold sweat running down my brow. "Does this place have any cannons of its own?"
"It's got a few naval guns that are still intact. The Tudor forces that were healthy enough to make a run for it before we captured the fortress made sure to disable as many of them as they could by plugging up the barrels and blowing them up." Johana said as she read the report provided by the engineers.
I set down the letter, mind racing through the implications. If this Sir Francis was still sailing toward Marburg, we had weeks, perhaps even only days before Tudor warships appeared on the horizon. The fortress might be ours, but holding it against a naval bombardment with damaged cannons would be another matter entirely.
"Send word to the Vambergers," I ordered. "I want every functional cannon inspected and test-fired by sunset. Whatever the Tudor forces sabotaged, we need to know now."
Johana made a note. "The powder stores?"
"Inventory them. And check if Baron Halsten left any records of his gunners' positions. We'll need to train our own men on those weapons fast."
A knock at the door interrupted us. One of our scouts entered, still dusty from the road.
"Commander, riders approaching from the siege camp. Count Brummen's banner, along with several other noble houses."
"How many?"
"Near two hundred, sir. Full ceremonial escort."
I exchanged a glance with Johana. The Count was making a statement—arriving in force to remind everyone who held ultimate authority here. Never mind that his own troops had contributed nothing to the siege beyond sitting on their asses and eating up supplies.
"Have the men form up in the main courtyard," I instructed. "Full dress ranks. Let's give the good Count the reception he expects."
As the scout departed, I turned back to Baron Halsten's desk. Among the papers lay a small leather journal, its pages filled with more personal observations than the official records. I flipped through it quickly, scanning entries about garrison morale, concerns about disease spreading through the civilian quarters, and—
I stopped. The entry was dated three days before our siege began:
"Strange reports from the mountain villages. Whole families found dead in their homes. The local priests speak of evil humors in the air. I've ordered the affected areas quarantined, but if this pestilence reaches Marburg..."
My stomach turned as I read further entries detailing the Baron's growing alarm as more reports filtered in. He'd been fighting a plague even before we arrived with our own purposefully engineered one.
What an odd coincidence…
"Commander?" Johana had noticed my expression.
I closed the journal. "Nothing that changes our immediate concerns. The Count approaches?"
She nodded, though her eyes lingered on the journal. "The men are assembling."
We made our way to the courtyard, where our men had formed impressive ranks despite their exhaustion. The morning sun caught on polished steel and the company standard flew proudly from the keep where I'd planted it. A good showing, though I knew it wouldn't impress nobles who measured worth by bloodline rather than battlefield prowess.
Count Brummen's procession entered through the main gate with all the pomp of a royal parade. The Count himself rode at the center, his bulk making his destrier labor despite its size. His purple doublet strained at the seams, and his multiple chins wobbled with each step of his mount. Behind him rode a collection of lesser nobles, their expressions ranging from barely concealed envy to outright disdain as they surveyed our battle-worn troops.
"Commander Volk," the Count called out as he reined in his horse, not bothering to dismount. "I see you've made yourself comfortable in MY new fortress."
I stepped forward, offering a proper military salute. "Count Brummen. Marburg is secured as contracted. The Ashen Pact awaits your inspection."
"Yes, yes." He waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. "Though I hear there were some... irregularities in your methods."
Here it comes. I kept my expression neutral. "We adapted our tactics to the situation, my lord. The fortress fell with minimal casualties to Midland's forces."
"Minimal Midland casualties, perhaps." A thin nobleman I didn't recognize nudged his horse forward. "But what of the Tudor garrison? Reports speak of bodies piled in the streets, of plague and pestilence."
"War is rarely clean, Lord..." I let the question hang.
"Gaveston," he supplied with a sneer. "And civilized warfare follows certain conventions. Using disease as a weapon smacks of decrepit eastern barbarity."
I felt Johana tense beside me but kept my own voice level. "The contract specified taking Marburg. Methods were left to the company's own discretion."
"Nevertheless," Count Brummen interjected, clearly enjoying his position of authority as much as he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, "such tactics raise questions about the character of those who employ them. The crown must consider carefully who it entrusts as the castellan of its strategic holdings."
The threat was clear. They could honor the contract's letter while denying us the fortress through political maneuvering. I'd won the race only to find the finish line moved.
"The Ashen Pact has proven its effectiveness," I replied carefully. "Marburg fell in one week as promised where conventional siege might have taken months."
"Yes, but at what cost to its value?" Lord Gaveston pressed. "A fortress full of diseased corpses serves no one. The plague you introduced—"
"Was already present," I interrupted, pulling out Baron Halsten's journal. "The Baron's own records detail outbreaks in the mountain villages even before the siege began. Whatever touched those settlements had reached Marburg's civilian quarter. We merely... hastened what was already inevitable."
It was a half-truth at best, but the journal provided enough cover to muddy the waters. Count Brummen's eyes narrowed as he processed this information.
"Hmm... Show me these records," he demanded.
I handed the journal to one of his attendants, who passed it up to the Count. As he read, his expression shifted from disinterest, to skepticism to calculation. A plague already loose in the mountains clearly changed the political arithmetic—it wasn't just about Marburg anymore, but about containing a potential catastrophe that could reach all the way to his own lands if not handled carefully.
"This is... troubling," he admitted finally as he handed the book to his attendant who in turn gave it back to me. "If this pestilence spreads..."
"The Ashen Pact has experience containing such outbreaks," I offered, seizing the opening. "Our healers understand how to handle diseases. We could ensure Marburg doesn't become a plague pit that threatens all of Midland."
Johana shot me a sharp glance. We had no such experience as far as I was aware beyond creating the Grey Fester itself, but the nobles didn't need to know that. What mattered was positioning ourselves as the solution to the problem we'd helped create.
Count Brummen shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. "The crown would need certain, mm... assurances."
"Of course," I agreed readily. "Regular reports. Full disclosure with His Majesty's appointed observers."
Lord Gaveston looked ready to object, but another noble—elderly with a practical air—spoke up. "The fortress is won, my liege. What matters now is holding it against Tudor reprisal. The Ashen Pact has proven capable in that regard."
"Hmm... you speak wisely, Baron Feldmore," Count Brummen declared, clearly ready to wash his hands of the complicated situation. "Very well. The Ashen Pact shall maintain garrison of Marburg, pending your royal confirmation as the castellan. You will receive your contracted payment and provisional authority over the fortress and its domains."
"Provisional?" I kept my tone respectful despite the qualifier.
"Until His Majesty reviews the full circumstances of the conquest," the Count clarified. "Tis but a mere formality, assuming no further... irregularities arise."
Translation: behave yourselves and don't embarrass us further. I could work with that.
"The Ashen Pact is honored by your trust, Count Brummen."
He grunted acknowledgment, already turning his horse. "I'll expect your first report within the week. And Commander Volk?"
"My lord?"
"Please do see that this plague matter is resolved quietly. The crown has enough troubles without panic spreading through the commoners, we don't want to have deal with a peasant rebellion on top of everything else."
With that, the noble procession departed as grandly as they'd arrived, leaving us in possession of a fortress that was ours in all but final paperwork.
Johana waited until they were out of earshot before speaking. "Provisional authority. They're keeping us on a leash, as expected."
"Better than being driven off entirely," I pointed out. "And it gives us time to establish ourselves before they can reconsider."
"What about this plague in the villages? If it's not the Grey Fester..."
I glanced back toward the keep where Baron Halsten's records waited. "Then we may have have a bigger problem than holding Marburg. Send riders to scout those villages with Dunhilda's people. I want to know what we're dealing with."
As Johana moved off to relay orders, I remained in the courtyard, staring up at our standard snapping in the wind. We'd won Marburg, but the victory felt hollow. The political games were just beginning, Tudor forces still threatened from the sea, and now another unknown plague—lurked in the mountains.
A soldier approached, saluting sharply. "Commander, the engineers report three cannons potentially salvageable. They're requesting additional smiths for the work."
"Approved. And have them prioritize the seaward-facing batteries." I paused, remembering something from Baron Halsten's papers. "There should also be a lighthouse on the eastern promontory. I want it manned day and night. First sign of hostile sails appears on the horizon, I want to know."
The soldier saluted again and hurried off. Around me, the Ashen Pact settled into the routine of occupation—securing stores, cataloging resources, establishing watch rotations. Professional soldiers doing what they did best, trusting their commander to handle the larger concerns.
That trust weighed on me as I made my way back to the Baron's study. Somewhere among his meticulous records might be clues about the plague, about Tudor's naval forces, about the dozen other threats facing us. Information was armor in its own way, and right now, we needed all the protection we could get.
The study door closed behind me with a solid thud, shutting out the noise of military occupation. I settled into Baron Halsten's chair—my chair now, however temporarily—and reached for the stack of correspondence.
One letter in particular caught my attention, its wax seal bearing an unfamiliar crest—a black ship on a silver field. The date placed it just days before our siege began:
"To Baron Halsten, Lord of Marburg,
Your concerns regarding the mountain sickness are noted. The local doctors have examined similar cases in my own territories. The symptoms match no known plague, and we don't yet know what is causing it. I urge caution in your investigations.
The fleet stands ready as discussed. Should Midland move against Marburg, expect our arrival within a fortnight of your signal. The new fire weapons provided to us are loaded and ready for deployment.
May the seas continue to guard your walls,
Sir Francis of Blackmoor."
I read the letter twice, my unease growing with each word. The "mountain sickness" that predated our siege could be something benign and easily contained or the start of a continent-wide epidemic. These "fire weapons" could be anything from cannons to a local equivalent of greek fire. I just didn't know.
And when I didn't know something, it meant I had less control over the situation than I was comfortable with.
And that scared me moreso than any foe.
Griffith walked alongside Casca as the Hawks were busy packing away their camp in preparation for departure.
"I want us ready to depart by tomorrow." He ordered in his usual calm but detached tone.
"Yes sir." Casca responded simply, though it was clear to Griffith that there was some bitterness hidden underneath her stoic mask.
Their gamble had unfortunately not paid off. Save for some salvage, the Hawks had little to show in terms of compensation for their participation in the siege.
Griffith had known this when accepting the contract's terms. The terms had determined the win conditions clearly and only winners got rewarded by the crown. And in this case the Ashen Pact had been the victor.
Everyone else would simply have to suck it up, lick their wounds and accept that their losses were for nothing. The disappointment was palpable among the Hawks, though even as they grumbled, as they dismantled tents and loaded supply wagons, they maintained their discipline.
Griffith observed them with his usual serene detachment, noting which men complained openly and which kept their frustrations buried beneath stoic masks.
"Commander Griffith."
He turned to find a rider in Ashen Pact colors approaching, dust still clinging to his traveling cloak. The man dismounted and offered a respectful bow—not the deep genuflection reserved for nobility, but the acknowledgment between military equals.
"Commander Volk requests your presence at Marburg," the messenger announced, producing a sealed letter. "He wishes to discuss matters of mutual interest."
Casca's hand drifted toward her sword hilt, an instinctive reaction to unexpected invitations. Griffith raised a hand slightly, calming her without words, and accepted the letter. The wax bore the sword-in-ash seal, pressed with deliberate care.
Breaking it open, he scanned Volk's angular script:
"Commander Griffith,
Your valor during the siege deserves recognition beyond what Count Brummen's terms provided. I propose we discuss an arrangement that might benefit both our companies. The Ashen Pact has need of proven allies as we secure Marburg against future threats.
I await your response.
Volk"
"Interesting," Griffith murmured, folding the letter carefully. Whatever game Volk played, it was subtler than most mercenary commanders attempted. The man had won—he held Marburg, claimed the payment, established his company's reputation. Yet here he was, extending a hand to the very rival he'd beaten to the prize.
"It could be a trap," Casca suggested quietly. "Eliminate competition while seeming generous."
"Perhaps." Griffith's lips curved in the faintest smile. "Though killing rival commanders after victory would damage the very reputation he seeks to build. No—Commander Volk wants something else."
He considered for a moment, then addressed the messenger. "Tell your commander I'll attend him this evening. A small escort only."
The messenger bowed again and remounted, spurring his horse back toward the looming fortress. Casca watched him go with narrowed eyes.
"You're actually going?"
"Knowledge presents itself in many forms, Casca. Sometimes it wears the face of a rival extending unexpected courtesy." Griffith turned back toward their camp. "Select four men to accompany us. Veterans who can keep their eyes open and mouths shut."
As Casca moved to carry out his orders, Griffith gazed toward Marburg's walls. The Ashen Pact's standard still flew from the highest tower, that sword-in-ash emblem catching the afternoon light. Whatever Volk's true intentions, the meeting would reveal something useful—about the man, his methods, or his weaknesses.
In this world, information often proved deadlier than any blade.
The sun hung low when Griffith arrived at Marburg's gates, casting long shadows across the killing ground before the fortress. The bodies had been cleared, but dark stains still marked where men had fallen. Four Hawks rode with him—Casca and three veterans whose names he knew and talents he trusted.
Ashen Pact soldiers manned the gatehouse, their movements speaking of bone-deep exhaustion barely held in check by discipline. They recognized Griffith immediately, offering salutes that managed to convey respect without deference. The gate opened without challenge.
Inside, the fortress bore all the scars of recent conquest. Scorch marks blackened stone where fires had raged. The stench of death lingered despite efforts to clear the corpses. Work parties labored to repair the breach, their movements purposeful but weary.
A sergeant with grey threading her brown hair approached, offering a crisp salute. "Commander Griffith. Commander Volk awaits in the Baron's solar. If you'll follow me?"
They dismounted, leaving their horses with stablehands who looked barely old enough to grow beards. The sergeant led them through corridors that still showed signs of hasty evacuation—overturned furniture, scattered documents, dark stains where wounded had been dragged to safety.
"Your men secured the fortress quickly," Griffith observed as they climbed a spiral staircase.
"We do what needs doing," the sergeant replied without elaboration.
The Baron's solar occupied the keep's upper level, its windows offering commanding views of both the approach roads and the sea beyond. Volk stood with his back to them as they entered, studying something on the massive oak table that dominated the room.
"Commander Griffith." He turned, offering a warrior's greeting—hand to heart, a gesture between equals. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
Griffith returned the gesture, noting how Volk's weathered face showed no triumph despite his victory. The man looked tired, burdened by concerns that went beyond holding a fortress.
"Your message spoke of mutual benefit," Griffith said, accepting the chair Volk indicated. Casca remained standing, positioned where she could watch both the door and their host.
"Direct as always." Volk poured wine from a crystal decanter—quality stuff, probably from Baron Halsten's private stores. "The situation here is more complex than it appears."
"Most situations are." Griffith accepted the offered cup but didn't drink, waiting for Volk to reveal his hand.
Volk moved to the table, gesturing at the papers spread across its surface. "Baron Halsten kept extensive records. Among them, intelligence about Tudor naval movements. A fleet under Sir Francis of Blackmoor sails for Marburg as we speak."
Griffith's expression didn't change, though inwardly he calculated rapidly. A Tudor fleet would change everything—the fortress could be cut off, besieged in turn, bombarded from the sea until they submitted.
"Count Brummen's forces have withdrawn, many of the other companies will soon do so as well." Volk continued. "The nobility consider Marburg won and their interest ended. But whoever holds this fortress when that fleet arrives..."
"Will face Tudor's wrath alone," Griffith finished. "While Midland's nobles debate whether to send aid."
"Just so." Volk met his gaze directly. "The Ashen Pact can hold these walls, but holding them while under naval bombardment, with damaged guns and depleted supplies? That's another matter."
Griffith set down his untouched wine. "You want the Hawks to remain. Bolster your defenses."
"I want to ensure Marburg remains in Midland's hands, yes." Volk corrected. "The Ashen Pact has the fortress, however we're but one company. We can't be everywhere at once."
"And in return?"
Volk produced a sizeable chest from underneath the desk, setting it on the table with a heavy thunk. "The Hawks fought well. It seems only fair they receive compensation for their efforts."
Griffith didn't need to open the chest to know it contained gold—likely a portion of the Ashen Pact's payment from Count Brummen. Generosity from a rival was always suspect, yet this felt different. Calculated, yes, but rooted in pragmatism rather than manipulation.
"You're proposing an alliance," Griffith said slowly. "Temporary, until the Tudor threat passes."
"I'm proposing we both get what we want," Volk replied. "You need contracts to keep your men fed and equipped. I need experienced fighters to hold what we've taken. Afterward, we go our separate ways, both companies stronger for the cooperation."
Casca shifted slightly, her skepticism evident even in that small movement. But Griffith saw the deeper game. Volk wasn't just securing military aid—he was establishing the Ashen Pact as a company that honored its rivals even in defeat, a company that succeeded through cooperation rather than mere force. Building a reputation that would outlast any single victory.
He could respect that.
"Your terms?"
"Standard garrison contracts. Your men receive regular pay, a share of the supplies from Marburg's stores, and salvage rights from any Tudor forces we defeat." Volk paused. "Plus the advance payment within this chest, regardless of your decision."
Griffith stood, moving to the window. Below, Ashen Pact soldiers worked alongside locals to clear rubble from the courtyard. The integration had already begun—Volk wasn't just occupying Marburg, he was establishing roots.
"When do you expect this fleet?"
"Within the week at earliest, if what I've gathered from Halsten's documents proves accurate. More if the fleet experiences delays."
A week to prepare defenses, train men on unfamiliar weapons, coordinate two companies that had just been rivals. Ambitious, perhaps impossible. Yet the alternative was allowing Tudor to reclaim the fortress, rendering all their previous efforts meaningless.
"I'll need to discuss this with my officers," Griffith said finally.
"Of course." Volk's expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes suggested satisfaction. "The offer stands until dawn. After that, I'll need to start making other arrangements."
Griffith collected the chest full of gold, its weight substantial enough that he needed both hands to carry it. "You're very free with your earnings, Commander Volk."
"Gold is only useful if you live to spend it," Volk replied. "And right now, living requires holding these walls against whatever Tudor sends our way."
As they prepared to leave, Griffith paused at the door. "One question. The plague that weakened Marburg's defenders—was that truly your doing?"
Volk's weathered face revealed nothing. "Does it matter? The fortress fell, Midland claimed victory, and now we must deal with the consequences."
A non-answer that said everything. Griffith inclined his head slightly—acknowledgment between professionals who understood that some methods were best left unexamined.
The ride back to the Hawks' camp passed in relative silence. Casca waited until they were well clear of Marburg's walls before speaking.
"He's not what I expected."
"Oh?" Griffith kept his gaze forward, though he listened intently. "And what exactly were you expecting?"
"Most commanders would celebrate, boast about their victory. Volk seems... burdened by it."
"Perhaps because he understands what victory truly costs," Griffith mused. "Or what maintaining his current position will require of him and his men."
In the morning, Griffith called his senior officers to his tent—Casca, Judeau, Pippin, and Corkus. The chest filled with gold landed on the map table with a satisfying clunk.
"What's this? A gift?" Corkus reached for it immediately, eyes gleaming. "From who?"
"The Ashen Pact," Griffith announced, watching their reactions. "Commander Volk proposes we garrison Marburg alongside his own forces. Tudor brings a fleet within the week at earliest."
Judeau whistled low. "Naval bombardment against already compromised defenses? That's a death trap alright. I'd rather pass."
"It's also an opportunity," Griffith countered. "Holding Marburg against the might of an entire Tudor fleet would cement any company's reputation just as well as taking it did. Anyone with influence within the king's court would take notice of such a feat."
"If we survive that is," Pippin rumbled, his massive frame making the tent feel smaller. The former miner was not one for empty talk and it often showed in his bluntness. "We'd be risking an awful lot to save the hides of the ones that stole our payday from right under our noses."
"The Ashen Pact proved resourceful during the siege," Casca voiced her own thoughts, already busy pondering about the defense. "Their methods are... unorthodox, but they clearly get results. However the risk is still there that we'll get caught with them once Tudor lands their forces."
Corkus had opened the chest, grabbing a handful of coins and letting them run through his fingers. "This is just an advance? Damn, they must not be hurting for coin if they can just afford to give this much away as a mere gesture of goodwill." The former thief surmised with barely disguised greed.
Griffith let the silence stretch for a moment, watching the interplay of emotions across his officers' faces. Greed warred with caution, ambition with pragmatism. These were the calculations that defined mercenary life on a near daily basis—weighing risk against reward, survival against advancement.
"The gold alone justifies consideration," he said finally. "But the larger question remains: do we trust Volk's assessment of the threat?"
"The baron's records could be outdated," Judeau pointed out, ever the cautious strategist. "Tudor might have delayed the fleet, or sent it elsewhere entirely."
"Or they might arrive tomorrow with twice the ships Halsten expected," Casca countered. "Either way, staying means fighting. Leaving means we gain this gold but lose any chance of greater glory."
Corkus reluctantly closed the lid of the chest. "How much greater glory do we need? We've already got enough here to keep the company fed and equipped for months. Why risk it all for some other guy's prize?"
"Because," Griffith said softly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty, "the Hawks do not retreat from challenges. We rise to meet them, and in meeting them, we ascend."
He moved to the tent's opening, gazing toward Marburg's silhouette against the darkening sky. The fortress represented more than stone and mortar at this point—it was a symbol of what could be achieved through enough will, ingenuity, and determination.
To Griffith, abandoning it now would be to accept limitation, to acknowledge that some heights remained beyond his reach.
And as a future king, he would accept no such limitation on himself.
"Send word to Commander Volk," he decided. "Tell him the Band of the Hawk gladly accepts his proposal."
Maurice, like many others among the Pact's rank and file, had taken the first couple days after the victory over Marburg to celebrate his own survival and the generous payday he got to enjoy because of it. Commander Volk had opened up the local lord's private reserves of wine and ale for their consumption and many a drunk man sang his praises for it in the aftermath as they stumbled through the courtyard.
Once the fortress' bathhouse, which apparently also acted informally as a brothel, had repopened its doors for business some time later, it too had no shortage of customers. However due to many of the workers having died from the plague before the siege ended, the establishment didn't quite have enough hands on deck to service all of the new occupants, thus strict quotas were set for its usage.
The celebration mood soured further when word spread that a possible Tudor counter-attack by sea would be already on the way and they'd have to defend against it. And it died pretty much completely when they were told that the Band of the Hawk would be staying in the fortress with them as garrison partners.
Maurice had watched the reactions ripple through his unit in real time. The matter was clearly divisive. Some men nodded approvingly at having renowned fighters alongside them, others grumbled about sharing quarters and rations with people who'd tried to claim their prize just days before.
"Can't believe we have to bunk with those guys." One of the newer recruits, Helmut, he thinks the man's name was, muttered with a pout as ran an oiled rag across the surface of his pike's head.
"At least they know how to fight," muttered Aldric, a veteran halberdier cleaning his weapon by the barracks wall. "Better than those soft-bellied nobles who showed up after we'd already done all the bleeding."
"Fight, sure, I don't think anyone's disputing that." Replied another soldier Maurice didn't recognize well yet. "But can we trust them to watch our backs?"
Maurice kept his thoughts to himself as he checked his own pike for damage. The weapon had served him well during the assault, its steel point still sharp despite the battering it had taken against Tudor shields and armor. Around him, other pikemen performed similar maintenance - the endless routine of professional soldiers keeping their tools ready for the next fight.
"Doesn't matter to me whether you trust them or not. The commander does and that's good enough for me." Aldric said, spitting on the ground. "And it'll be good enough for you too whelp, lest you want the sergeant to give you a lashing."
The older man's words carried a bitter edge that wasn't lost on Maurice or his fellow soldiers. Just yesterday these same men had been racing them to plant their standard atop the keep. Now they were supposed to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with them against the Tudor fleet reportedly sailing their way.
It was all so absurd at a glance, but Maurice found that because of that absurdity it was also incredibly funny. And everyone needed a bit of good humor to get through the day.
A/N:
Damn okay, people are clearly starving for some good Berserk content. Guess it's also a good thing I aim to deliver quality to the best of my abilities.
Anyway, regarding this chapter, I had originally planned for a longer timeskip to allow us to move onto other things, but then I figured that I wasn't quite ready to end things regarding the struggle for Marburg just yet and decided to throw in one last surprise for the protagonist because having to deal with a naval invasion just after winning a siege felt like just the kind of curveball that fate would throw his way. And given that Marburg is meant to positioned at a chokepoint close to the coastline and the fact that its role in naval warfare and sea travel wasn't really explored because of the short length of the siege, I figured I needed to extend this arc just a bit longer and this is the perfect way to do so. The fact that it will also allows me to further establish Volk's and Griffith's relationship and perspectives on eachother as fellow mercs better is merely a bonus.
Now, the big thing that some have brought up to me and I've also considered myself is what the fate of Guts is going to be given the butterfly effects that Volk and co are gonna have. At least one person has suggested that Volk should poach him before Griffith does and get himself a decent soldier within his company's ranks. There are several problems with this obviously, not in the least of which is "Why would Guts want to join in the first place," but I'd like to see people discuss this and theorize on it further while it's still a somewhat distant thing rather than something I have to make a decision on post-haste. Mostly because it gives me something to chew on regarding the topic, but also because I just like seeing what people come up with and how they reason their suggestions.
That's all for now. Your feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated. I'll see you all in the next one. Peace.Last edited: Tuesday at 8:16 PMLike Award Quote Reply97