THE LORD COMMANDER

  Maevan rode his horse as fast as possible, the wind rushed through his hair. He could see the walls of the Parton camp, a fire sent smoke high into the sky.

  The walls were made of sharpened wood stakes, and their tents were red, and inside the banner of Parton flying high. A white quill, writing on a piece of paper, with the sigil of the Holy Flame behind it.

  He finally reached it after about an hour of riding. He had rode for three months from the Castle to make it here. The King ordered for him to personally take charge of the defense of the South-west border.

  Maevan could see the sapphire sea from here, the deep blue water shimmering in the morning light. He’d ridden a month, and it was the first time he had properly seen the sunrise above the waters he called home.

  He stops his horse at the gate, a soldier called out from one of the watch towers. “Who goes there?” Maevan looks up, and can see the sigil on his breastplate, a man of House Martin.

  “I am Sar Maevan of the King’s Guard,” he screams, his hands cupped around his mouth. “I demand you open this door in the name of His Grace, King Aldrich of Carrion.”

  The gate pulled open, and Maevan trotted in. He was greeted by a man dressed in a mail shirt, and a half helm on. He held a long spear in his right hand, and looked at Maevan, seemingly examining him. “Welcome, sar.” Maeven nodded.

  He dismounted his horse and handed it off to a stable boy. “Where is Lord Parton?” he asked, resting his hand on the pommel of his longsword.

  “Lord Partom is in his command tent, Sar,” the man responded. “I am syr George, I am in command of the camp’s defences.”

  “Take me to Lord Parton.” Maevan looked around, the camp was lively enough, and well kept, yet it still smelled of manure and death and disease. “Tell him the King sent me.”

  “Of course, sar,” Syr George said, bowing. “Follow me,” he said, turning around, spear still in hand.

  The knight took him through a great bunch of military tents, and soldiers dying as Maevan walked around them. Most of them were rounded up peasants, barely knowing how to hold a sword-if they even had one. Most of them carried pitchforks, and shovels, and hoes and little knives, or if they were lucky, they had scythes.

  Maevan even saw a bunch of sharpened shovels, dirtied with dirt and blood and shit, dropped on the ground like they were dead bodies stacked. The bodies too were not far from those. They were stacked in piles that were almost as tall as the tents they probably called theirs.

  Maevan was probably the richest dressed person these men had seen in their entire lives. He was dressed in full plate while these men were dressed in rags and tunics. Even the knights were dressed in boiled leathers, and sparse amounts of chainmail. He could see that none of them had a longsword. Maybe a short sword, but they didn’t wear it at their sides.

  Finally he arrived at Lord Parton’s tent. Two guards stood outside, dressed similarly to syr George, yet they held golden circular shields in their left hands. “Sar Maevan of His Grace’s King’s Guard requests entry,” syr George said. The two guards stepped aside and syr Goerge escorted Maevan inside.

  Lord Parton was inside, feasting on a foal. His hands were messy, dripping with juices and covered in little pieces of meat. It made Maevan want to gag. The man looked oily, full of sweat, and little pieces of his meals stuck in his beard like a history catalogue of what he ate last night.

  “Sar Maevan,” Lord Parton said, raising his hands in the air, both holding parts of meat. He sucked the juices off his fingers, then wiped it off with a cloth. “How are you doing?” he asked, waddling over to him.

  Maevan moved his hand to his sword, he would cut the Lord down if any part of his body touched him, with all of that on him. Thankfully the lord saw him and stopped.

  “Lord Parton of House Crab, Lord of Crabclaw harbour, Duke of the Eighth province, ” Maevan started in an announcing voice, “I, Sar Maevan of the King;s Guard of Carrion, take full command of all of your bannermen and declare Lord Commander by order of His Grace, King Aldrich of House Obar.”

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  The Lord faltered. “Excuse me?” his voice was low and it was laced with disgust. “The King cannot do that, these are my bannermen and my soldiers!”

  “I assure you Lord Parton, His Grace surely can relieve you of your duty, and I am here to make sure it happens peacefully.” Maevan took a step forward, and pulled out the dagger that was attached under his breastplate. “But if you force my hand, I have been given permission to subdue-or kill-you.” he twisted the knife between his fingers, and rested his arm at his side.

  “This is treason!” The lord took a step back. He was quivering. “You cannot kill me! My soldiers and knights will take your head!”

  “Will they?”

  “I am a lord!” lord Parton screamed at the top of his lungs so loud that the guards outside of the tent entered to check in.

  “Is there an issue, my lord?” one of the soldiers asked, and Maevan readied himself for a fight, and tightened his grip on the dagger. Syr George had left by now to see to something on the outskirts of the camp.

  “I want Sar Maevan arrested for treason!” Lord Parton shouted, pointing at Maevan. “He threatens to kill me and all of the men here.”

  The guards looked at Maevan, probably considering the actions that put him in the position where he has to now fight a King’s Guard knight in full plate who had a longsword and a dagger, while he only had leather and chainmail for armour, and a spear in close combat.

  “What are you waiting for? Take his head!” Lord Parton was shouting his head off, while leaning on the table. “I want him dead!”

  The second guard took a cautious step forward towards him, and Maevan stared at him. “I would not do that if I were you.” The guard took another step forward, he was afraid of him. “If you want money, I have money you know. If you take the lord out of here, I’ll give you twenty gold.” he reached out his left hand, gesturing for a shake.

  The soldier staggered, then pushed out his hand and shook it. The two turned to Lord Parton and began marching towards him. “Get your hands off me you peasants!” He grabbed his sword from his table, and stabbed one of the guys in the throat, and before the other could do much, he jammed it in the man’s eye, who screamed in pain as Lord Parton twisted in the knife with a smile on his face.

  Maevan pulled out his longsword, the metal rubbing against the leather in a sound that was music to his ears. He clasped the handle with both hands and swiftly pulled it to his right as he took three steps forward and smashed it into the lord’s arm with all of his strength.

  The main arm that held the sword was almost completely torn into pieces. The bone racked, and blood was slowly seeping out, and Maevan could see his blade slowly turning red. He pulled it out, and blood spurted out of the open wound.

  Maevan could see the lord’s bone, and he could see all the fat in his arm and could see life slowly draining from it. The lord screamed in pain, dropping the sword and grabbing the top of his arm, trying to put it back before yelping in pain.

  Syr George rushed into the tent, followed by ten knights, even lessly armoured than the two guards. “What is happening here?” syr George asked, his eyes fixed on Lord Parton crying in pain, holding his arm. “Did you attack him?” his eyes drifted to the two bodies of the guards. “Did you kill them?

  “He killed them,” Maevan said in a cool tone, he had seen blood before. “He tried to kill me when I told him of the King’s orders, and I cut off the attacker’s arm.” Maevan turned back, and could see the white bone again. It was still pretty intact, the sword was sort of dull from recent fights. “I do admit that I failed to take it clean off.”

  Lord Parton was now on his knees, on the ground, and wailing like a damn baby, “Heeeeelp!” he yelled. “I need a doctor!” Lord Parton continued.

  “I agree, take him to whatever medic you have.” Maevan stepped over the lord who was now laying on the ground. “Don’t continue his suffering, get him out of here and get him some aid.” And as syr George and the men he entered with, dragged the lord out as Maevan grabbed the table cloth, the one that the lord had used to wipe his fingers, and wiped the blood off his sword with it.

  “Syr George,” Maevan called out to the knight. “I order you to stay.”

  Syr George turned back and re-entered the tent. “What do you need of me, Sar?” he asked, standing at attention with his hands behind him.

  “I am Lord Commander of this army now,” Maevan began, taking a breath as she sheathed his sword. “And I require you to make sure that none rebel.”

  “Of course, I will,” syr George said, “Anything else, my Sar?”

  “I want a new guard at my tent, and I want the scribe inside in two hours. I also want this tent cleared and cleaned, I want a bed.” He took a moment to collect himself. “And I want a woman, I passed by a brothel on the ride here.” He handed the knight a small pouch of coins, the one he had offered to the guards. “Use this, and get a couple women for me and you. That is all.”

  Maevan sat at Lord Parton’s table, and pulled a piece of meat off the foal, and ate a slight bit of it. It tasted horrible, overly salted. Barbaric seasoning and barbaric food. Thank the gods that that fat toad of a lord gave me the chance to kill him.

  Lord Parton was always a weird creep to Maevan. He still remembered living under him, before he joined the King’s Guard, before he was knighted, before he even held a sword for the first time. When his sister had to work for lord Parton as a concubine to even afford them food. It made him sick.