Starlion
After some thought, you decide to break in one of the side-doors once the guards have gotten tipsy. You send out some men to surround the castle undetected, to keep watch until the rest of you arrive.
You divide the rest of the evening between catching a few winks (you’ll be up late tonight!), giving orders to your men, and sending reports back to Ellesmir. Twice throughout the eve you nip at a whiskey bottle one of your men brought for you—without being told to. You love the men under your command. They’re disciplined, considerate, devoted, and skilled. Of course, they have their brawls and black eyes, but they listen to you. They respect you. They’d die for you, and that can’t be said about every men out there with a sword and a cloak.
You prepare to head out to Castel Starlion when a courtier hands you a slip of dirty paper:
“Three Starlion squadrons burning east gate. Two more battering southern walls. Won’t last past midnight. Need reinforcements to Aselford if possible.
~ Arran”
“Arran…” the name flickers through your eyes and registers in your brain. Arran! Your old buddy from obscurity, who laughed with you and played truant with you. He joined the town guard when you joined espionage. Does he know that you are the recipient of this dispatch? Is that why he sent it?
“How long since you left Aselford?” you ask the courtier.
“About four or five hours, sir,” he replies, “Rode as fast as I could and changed horses thrice.”
It takes your capable mind only a moment to make the calculations: Aselford, your birth town, is about fifty miles southwest. You have thirteen available men—three are keeping an eye on the Castel Starlion—and nine horses. There are forty men of Starlion assailing Aselford. With horses, you should reach Aselford a couple hours before dawn—too late to be of any help. You’re simply too far away.
But this isn’t an official order. A private plea for help from a friend. Your orders are to get your hands on the baron’s daughter and bring her into Arolion.
You decide to:
You divide the rest of the evening between catching a few winks (you’ll be up late tonight!), giving orders to your men, and sending reports back to Ellesmir. Twice throughout the eve you nip at a whiskey bottle one of your men brought for you—without being told to. You love the men under your command. They’re disciplined, considerate, devoted, and skilled. Of course, they have their brawls and black eyes, but they listen to you. They respect you. They’d die for you, and that can’t be said about every men out there with a sword and a cloak.
You prepare to head out to Castel Starlion when a courtier hands you a slip of dirty paper:
“Three Starlion squadrons burning east gate. Two more battering southern walls. Won’t last past midnight. Need reinforcements to Aselford if possible.
~ Arran”
“Arran…” the name flickers through your eyes and registers in your brain. Arran! Your old buddy from obscurity, who laughed with you and played truant with you. He joined the town guard when you joined espionage. Does he know that you are the recipient of this dispatch? Is that why he sent it?
“How long since you left Aselford?” you ask the courtier.
“About four or five hours, sir,” he replies, “Rode as fast as I could and changed horses thrice.”
It takes your capable mind only a moment to make the calculations: Aselford, your birth town, is about fifty miles southwest. You have thirteen available men—three are keeping an eye on the Castel Starlion—and nine horses. There are forty men of Starlion assailing Aselford. With horses, you should reach Aselford a couple hours before dawn—too late to be of any help. You’re simply too far away.
But this isn’t an official order. A private plea for help from a friend. Your orders are to get your hands on the baron’s daughter and bring her into Arolion.
You decide to: