The retinue strode at a determined pace along the city street, their objective now in plain sight. The street was wide enough, being a main thoroughfare of the city of Palanthine, and allowed for six men to march abreast. Along the sides of the street were some of the common folk of the city, in various states of shock or disbelief or dismay or upset. Here and there was a soldier of Palanthine, or a city guard, equally dismayed as the commoners they were there to protect.
Retinue was perhaps not quite the right word for the group of soldiers. "Contingent" might be better. They were about two-dozen strong, dressed in the red and gold livery of the kingdom of Kharnov, which lay some five hundred miles to the south and west of Palanthine. The Kharnov soldiers were marching with purpose, their bearings conveying a grim determination: they were marching with their king in their midst, marching on the palace of Palanthine to demand surrender.
The two kingdoms had been at war for nearly ten years, now. It had started as an accidental skirmish near Central Farm, when patrols from the two kingdoms had met and mistakenly fought after a drinking challenge had gotten out of hand; when the diplomats later failed to resolve the situation, hostilities broke out. Open war was declared by both kings within the year, and armies were mobilised. The Kharnov soldiers, though, living in the hotter, drier environment, were more accustomed to exertion under duress, and after a few years of stalemated battles they slowly began pushing the soldiers of Palanthine back.
That all culminated in today. The Kharnov army was camped at the city gates, waiting. General Olun was in charge of the army, waiting for his king's signal. For nearly ten years he'd led this army, and the general felt victory was long overdue. He wanted his moment, but would wait on his king's word. That was his duty. He'd selected the honour guard that was to escort King Tyrum Havarrel through Palanthine to the palace, there to meet with the opposing king and demand surrender. A part of the General wanted Palanthine to reject surrender…but he doubted that would happen, not if the Palanthine king was a sane person.
The Kharnov soldiers were, generally, a strong and hardy people. Their skin was typically of slightly darker and dusky hues, a trait that came from living in warmer climate, and their hair typically darker than that of their northern neighbours. They tended to be lean and wiry, although the disposition to be physically strong was by no means missing. The contingent was heavily armed and armoured, marching in strong formation around their king. Other than the sound of their armour clanking and clinking with each step, they made no sound. They were not the first Kharnov force to enter the Palanthine palace, but they would be the most important.
The palace came into full view, the gates already flung open as if welcoming them. The honour guard did not slow its pace as it strode through the gates, then along the path from the gates to the main doors of the palace. The doors, too, were open, and presented no barrier to the honour guard. Kharnov soldiers saluted their king as the honour guard were now guided to the throneroom of the palace, and the contingent only slowed to a stop when the throneroom was reached, and they stepped aside to allow their king to step forward and make his claim for victory.
King Tyrum Havarrel was by no means a slob of a king; he was a solid man, stood nearly six feet tall, and he, too, was dressed in full armour, his shield slung over his back, his trusty sword sheathed at his hip. At nearly fifty years of age, his hair was shoulder-length, a flowing mane that was starting to turn grey; his features were heavy-set, his dark brown eyes set deep beneath a strong brow and astride a hooked nose, eyes that took in everything and gave away nothing. Courtiers – he assumed they were courtiers and nobles of some sort – watched, some open-mouthed, as he strode towards the throne, mounted the dais, then turned as sat heavily on the throne of Palanthine, the first Kharnov ever to do so. Was he sitting in the king's throne, or the queen's? He didn't know, and he didn't care…right now, that little bit of detail was irrelevant, but he guessed that, given he'd sat in the larger, it was the king's.
His steely, emotionless gaze swept over the people arrayed before him: the rigid determination of his guard countered by the bewildered looks of the nobles. He snorted softly, then let his gaze pick out on of the soldiers in the rear of the throneroom, one who was of the advance force that had secured the palace before his arrival.
Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
