Post by nealnotdom on Dec 2, 2010 22:46:07 GMT 10
To: Sshasow
Message: Merry ChristFicmas!!! I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! May I say you have amazingly awesome taste? Enjoy!
From: nealnotdom
Title: Once More
Rating: G
Wishlist Item: 1- Wyldon. With a bit of Kel thrown in. 3- Pages. Not exactly PotS or SotL but I hope they are just as good. And I'm hoping I got this one in there. 4- Cute Moment.
Summary: When Wyldon agreed to supervise one last training exercise for haMinch, he wasn't expecting it to end up like this.
The snow drifted down, covering the forest in a thick, white carpet- the kind that you’d get a wet behind from sitting on, made almost ethereal by the light of the moon. The forest merged into a single unchanging barricade, individual trees nearly indefinable unless one was standing right in front of them. It was the middle of winter, a time where all but the bravest or most insane people and animals stayed indoors.
And obviously there were a few such people currently residing at the palace. A thorough overhead view of the forest might reveal several areas relatively clear of trees. And in one of these small clearings, several strange patches were just visible against the snow. Closer examination revealed them to be tents, belonging to the pages and squires at the palace. Some tents were embellished with a personal crest, revealing the knight it belonged to. This was a training exercise, pitting the current pages and unattached squires against the trainees of the Queen’s Riders and the King’s Own, who had temporarily forgone their rivalry in a joint effort to prove their superiority over the trainee knights.
The Own and the Riders were under the joint supervision of their commanders, Lord Sir Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie’s Peak and Buriram Tourakom, assisted by several of their officers. The pages and squires, however, were not under the command of their training master. Padraig haMinch had decided that the future knights were becoming too accustomed to taking orders from him and had called in a replacement; a man with plenty of prior practice, an abundance of skill as a commander and experience supervising knights-in-training.
HaMinch had handed the reins over to Wyldon of Cavall for one last time, or so he said. The king himself had requested Wyldon accept. It would be good, he had said, for the pages and squires to be commanded by someone other than their training master. And although Wyldon did not realise it, he was widely believed to be one of the best training masters alive.
The thought did not cross the lord of Cavall’s mind. He was far too busy planning to throttle haMinch, for among the list of supplies and redundant instructions was a short list of people who would be assisting him in the exercise. All were squireless knights, currently awaiting orders, and all but one were his former pages: Esmond of Nicoline, Yancen of Irenroha, Faleron of King’s Reach, Keladry of Mindelan and, gods save him, Nealan of Queenscove, along with his former knight mistress, Sir Alanna the Lioness. Wyldon had the sneaking suspicion that he had been set up, and haMinch confirmed this when he casually came around to ensure he had read everything. The other man had almost kept a straight face but his heaving shoulders gave him away. If they hadn’t been in public Wyldon would have throttled the man, there and then.
So now Wyldon was supervising more than thirty pages and squires as they set up tents and made plans and put into practice all the skills haMinch had supposedly drilled into them. All the while he was recalling exactly why he had always wanted to tie Queenscove’s tongue in knots. Baird’s son had already convinced half the squires to adopt his infuriating nickname- the Stump. Thankfully Mindelan had stepped in and shamed Queenscove into silence before Wyldon snapped and hung him from a tree. In time, the pages and squires had been convinced that Wyldon was serious when he told them that unless they had completed their tents before nightfall, he would throw their bedrolls into the trees and everyone would sleep in the snow. After that, he had finally gotten some peace, at least until it came time to set up cooking fires. From there his patience had been tested several times over the course of the evening.
Now though, night had truly fallen and the cold was beginning to set in. The pages and squires had all retreated to their tents, aside from those on sentry duty. They almost hadn’t had a sentry detail; every member of the group had overlooked that important aspect of their training. Each of the knights had watched with interest as the pages and squires prepared to turn in until several squires had at last remembered their training and made hasty arrangements. An argument had erupted as some of those chosen for the first watch protested at being forced to freeze for a few hours. It had only been ended when Wyldon had enlisted Keladry and Yancen to step in and help him head it off before they began fighting. Those on sentry had headed into the forest while the pages had withdrawn from the cold weather. Eventually even the squires had gone to bed, leaving the seven knights to gather around the remnants of the cooking fire.
Alanna was huddled up in her several layers of clothing, not talking to anyone. It amused Wyldon to no end, watching the fabled Lioness hunch down into a lump of clothing, nose as red as her hair. Her tongue was as sharp as ever and his comment about the weather had earned him a barbed reply. After that he had kept his peace. It wasn’t worth the punishment she would dish out on the fencing courts once the weather warmed.
Finally the chilly air overpowered the remaining heat from the fire. Alanna was the first to leave, scowling into a scarf. She threw a glare at Wyldon, one he ignored. She blamed him for her being here and Wyldon knew there was nothing he could do to change her mind.
Gradually the other knights departed for bed, Esmond and Faleron first, both debating over tactics and the advantages the trainee knights had over the trainees of the Riders and the Own. The pair of them were sharing a tent, claiming it was easier to put up and take down a slightly larger tent if two people were sharing the work. It was also warmer with two people in the tent. Most just left it at that and those that didn’t had a strange habit of showing up in odd places.
Irenroha left next, taking a small chunk of firewood with him. The boy, as Wyldon still thought of him, had an aptitude and an enjoyment of carving animals out of wood. He said nothing, simply standing and heading for his tent.
That left Mindelan, Queenscove and himself. The three of them had sat staring at the last of the dying embers, transfixed by the glow. Eventually Mindelan stood, yawns pervading her normal, emotionless mask. She had jabbed Queenscove, not too gently, wordlessly convincing him to leave. He had grumbled but risen and with an exaggerated bow to Wyldon and a sarcastic, “My Lord,” the infuriating knight had taken his leave. With a shake of her head, Mindelan had left for her own tent.
Not long after, Wyldon had turned in. If the pages and squires wanted to win this, they would have to get up early, meaning he would as well. As he ducked into his tent, a movement made him look up. Queenscove had returned to the fireplace and was apparently attempting to do something to it, if the green balls of light were any indication. Wyldon left him to it. If Queenscove wanted to throw magic at the ashes all night, so be it. As he slipped into the light sleep of a man used to battle, the last though to cross his mind was that he almost pitied the Lioness. Having that boy as a squire would have been infuriating.
Several hours later, a sudden crackling snort jolted Wyldon awake. For some minutes he kept up a façade of sleep, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and examining the interior of his tent to find the source of the noise. Finding none, he opened his eyes to hear the bizarre sound being repeated. And again. It seemed to be coming from outside his tent, across the campsite, if he could trust his ears. A brief struggle followed this observation as Wyldon tried to untangle his bedroll. Finally he managed to sit up and untie his tent flap, gritting his teeth as his head was thrust into the chilly air outside.
It was that peculiar time of night, where everything was black and white, shadows covering the camp, and all was silent, until that noise pierced the silence yet again. Wyldon guessed it was nearing or just past the middle of the night as he examined the campsite. There was nothing to suggest the origins of the noise that had awoken him. Again the silence was broken and this time the noise was followed by a grunting snuffle. It had come from the other side of the camp, Wyldon was certain. Suddenly he worked it out. But that wasn’t possible. Waiting for the sound again, Wyldon stared in the direction of Queenscove’s tent. It was definitely him. Mithros, how could anyone snore so loudly? Surely it was impossible? But no, it was definitely the boy and he was snoring fit to waken the dead.
The noise started again and Wyldon had just resolved to throttle Queenscove when he heard the rustle of another tent flap. His eyes flicked over the camp, spying the patch of colour that was the Lioness’s hair. She too was looking over at Queenscove’s tent and as he watched, she fumbled with the ties of her tent and stepped out into the snow, several sizes larger than usual due to her extra clothing. In a hurried dash, Alanna shuffled over to Queenscove’s tent, fumbling with his tent. Finally she undid the ties and poked her head through the flap. Wyldon waited; satisfied that she would end the horrendous noises coming from Queenscove. However after several moments, she withdrew her head, twisting to shuffle awkwardly back to her own tent.
“Lady Alanna, control your squire!” Wyldon hissed across the camp, loud enough for her to hear but hopefully quiet enough not to awaken the sleeping pages and squires.
Alanna stopped, hand on the flap of her tent. Her teeth flashed white in the surrounding darkness as she replied. “He was your page before my squire, Cavall. Control him yourself.”
And with that she practically dove back into her own tent. A brief flare of purple announced to him that she had deadened the noise inside her tent, preventing Queenscove from interrupting her sleep. Fuming, Wyldon didn’t realise he had company until a stifled laugh reached him. Turning, he saw Mindelan, a hand clamped over her mouth. About to say something, he was cut off by the sound of several tents being opened. The sight that met him as he turned back to the campsite, intending to end the disturbance, nearly made him curse.
The exchange between he and the Lioness had not gone unnoticed, as he had hoped. Squires and pages were poking their heads out of tents around the camp, intrigued by the argument. Or possibly by the outlandish sounds issuing from Queenscove. Several bolder souls were stepping out into the snow, carefully making their way to the ashes near the centre of the camp, marking the long dead fire. They milled around for a few minutes, uncertain of what to do next. Then a shadowy figure began picking their way in the direction of Queenscove’s tent, a figure he recognised by the toss of her head and her proud posture. Clara of Secrest, one of the three female squires, led the way through the tents, stopping outside the tent. The others milled around her, seeming confused. Then whispers started, growing louder as they began to understand what was happening.
A figure detached itself from the group and hurried back over to the fireplace, where many of the pages and squires had gathered, anxious for information. Several sentries had joined them, Wyldon saw, and more were filtering back through the trees. An outbreak of whispers ensued, followed by an skeptical denial.
“That’s not possible,” came Edmund of Fairs Peak’s voice, clear over the snores. “No one could possibly make that much noise and stay asleep.”
“Obviously he can,” the shadow, now recognizable as Danzis of the Sunset Dragon tribe, retorted sharply. Over the course of the day, Wyldon had noticed that the boy disliked being told he was wrong. “He’s doing it now.”
Another flurry of conversation. Then the group began to stream over to the tent, in ones and twos that soon ended with every last page and squire in the camp, surrounding Queenscove’s tent and its unsuspecting occupant. A patch of colour drew Wyldon’s attention to the Lioness’s tent. Once again her head was poking out of the flap. This time she seemed content to watch the events unfold. From there, Wyldon noticed several outlines against the tents containing to the other knights. No one appeared to want to halt the proceedings and all remained still, as not to draw the trainee knights’ attention. To his surprise, Wyldon realised that he and Mindelan were doing the same. As supervisor for this exercise, it was his role to send the errant pages and squires back to their bedrolls but he found himself unwilling to do so. This was a test of their ability to think for themselves in dangerous situations. His taking active command would defeat the purpose of the exercise.
Movement alerted him to the fact that said errant beings were up to something. Through the mass of shadows that formed the cluster, he could make out the shadow that was Secrest scrabbling with the tie to Queenscove’s tent. It appeared that the Lioness knew her knots because the girl appeared to be having some difficulty in undoing the tether. A number of indistinguishable outlines moved to help her and soon the tie appeared to give way. Secrest cautiously pushed her head through the flap, into the tent. And for a moment the entire camp, Wyldon included, seemed to hold its breath. Aside from Queenscove.
A scream shattered the momentary silence and Secrest practically flew back from the tent, forcing her way through the onlookers.
“What?!” came Queenscove’s voice, spluttering with shock. For a moment his dry wit was rendered silent as he appeared to attempt to figure out what had happened. “Foul creatures of…yargh!”
The shout of fresh shock triggered the watching pages and squires, breaking the spell that had kept them silent. With a obscure shout becoming their war cry, the horde swarmed the tent, with the exception of Secrest who appeared to be scrabbling in her tent, yanking out her weapon. Their charge was cut short by the emergence of a trio of trainee Riders from Queenscove’s tent. The sudden appearance caused the mass to falter, long enough for the three to draw their weapons. Despite the initial advantage their surprise manifestation had given them, the three were hopelessly outnumbered and Wyldon knew without a doubt that they would be overcome without reinforcements.
Sadly for the pages and squires, those reinforcements were close by. In the silence that followed the shock appearance of the Riders, a low thunder could be heard in the forest, morphing into a howl as the combined forces of the Rider and Own trainees burst from the trees, pouring into the small campsite. They fell on the stunned and unarmed pages and squires, inflicting massive damage on them, even with training weapons.
To their credit, the pages and squires recovered quickly. After they grasped the fact that they were under attack, small knots began to form, using feet, fists and every other body part usable to force their way to tents, recovering weapons and attempting to arm as many as possible. Several groups came together; forcing their way through the trainees to other bunches of trainee knights, trying to form a defendable formation. And for several frantic moments, as the momentum of the Riders and the Own faded and the pages and squires began to fight back, it appeared that a win for the trainee knights was viable. Likely even. They pushed back against the packs of the Riders that came in to nip at their weak points and hacked at the multitude formed by the Own. Wyldon was almost certain they could repel the invaders, sending them back to the forest, if not defeating them.
Then a whistle sounded and the Own and Riders melted back into the trees, leaving the mass of pages and squires that had managed to recover in time to group together in anticipation of the next attack. A groan escaped Wyldon as he realised what was about to happen. The clustering made the remaining pages and squires an easy target for the volleys of arrows that rained down on them from the trees. Another whistle blew and it was all over. The Riders and the Own surged back into the clearing, descending on the confused ranks of pages and squires, decimating them. Within five minutes the battle was over. A handful of trainee knights remained, hands being bound with their own tent ties by the Riders while the Own painstakingly disassembled all the tents, neatly folding them up and throwing the folded squares of material into the trees. A low moan rose from the survivors of the attack. Without the tents, it would be a very long, very cold night. Even getting the tents out of the tree would be pointless, as the snow would have gotten to them long before they could be reached.
Their work done, the Riders and Own left, congratulating each other and hurling insults and advice at the sullen pages and squires. Luckily for them, the Riders had run out of tent ties for the ‘dead’ pages and squires and before long they had begun to recover from their injuries. The ten or so unbound began to move amongst their fellows, releasing them and helping to gather their belongings, now scattered across the campsite. A few began an attempt to rescue their tents but most resigned themselves to sleeping under trees.
Mindelan sighed and Wyldon started, having forgotten she was there. He had been preoccupied with what he was planning on informing the pages and squires in the morning, before they returned to the castle.
“I guess I had best start packing,” Mindelan murmured, rising to her feet and making her way over to her tent. “It looks like this exercise is over.”
“That it does,” Wyldon replied dejectedly. There would be a long line of people who would be in no hurry to allow him to forget this incident. The commanders of the Own and the Riders would be only the first.
As if echoing his thoughts, Mindelan stopped outside her tent and looked back at him. Was he imagining things or could he hear a hint of sympathy in her voice? “You realise Raoul will never let you forget this. No matter how many times you throw him from the saddle, he will bring this up at every possible moment.”
“I know that, Mindelan,” he snapped. “I have been on training exercises with Goldenlake before.” Almost immediately he regretted the words but recognizing them as true, he refused to apologise. Mindelan would understand that, he knew.
With a faint tilt of her head, barely visible in the darkness, she accepted his words. “I’ll talk to him,” she said, amusement in her voice. Then, before he could respond, she disappeared into her tent. The sound of packing reached his ears and with a sigh of his own, Wyldon ducked down to crawl back into his own tent. Mindelan was right; packing tonight would be a fair idea. After all, with the noise the pages and squires were making, it was unlikely anyone would be getting any sleep for the next few hours.
Later Wyldon would look back on the night and condemn himself for a fool. Like he had told Mindelan, he had been on training exercises with Raoul of Goldenlake before. And had lost his share of them. In hindsight, he should have anticipated the next move. When he turned to his bedroll, he should have expected the sight that met him.
But he didn’t. Instead, he started to see Raoul of Goldenlake, reclining on his bedroll, feet propped one on top of the other, hands behind his head and a triumphant smirk on his face.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised, Cavall. After all this time, I would’ve thought you would have expected this.”
“Not surprised, Goldenlake, merely bored,” Wyldon lied, recovering himself. “And a little curious. Why do you persist in such pointless antics?”
Raoul pulled himself into a sitting position before clambering to his feet. In the small tent he was bent almost double. The smirk remained on his face as he replied.
“Well,” he began, tone suggesting the explanation would take a while. “You just lost the training exercise. Now that on its own could be passed off on haMinch’s training, which would both protect your reputation and deprive me of bragging rights. But if I can get this close to you…” the smirk on his face entered his voice as he snapped a hand up to hover near Wyldon’s face. The older man didn’t flinch and Raoul turned to leave, lifting the corner of the tent to reveal the slit seams from top to bottom. He stepped out, into the night, pausing to finish the sentence.
“…Well that can hardly be blamed on haMinch.”
Raoul withdrew, leaving a humiliated Wyldon to glare after him, through the cut seams that marked his exit.
A breath of wind helped snow into the tent via Raoul’s impromptu doorway. It broke Wyldon’s trance and a curse escaped his lips, muttered as he collected his bedroll before it could be ruined. The sound of his defeated pages and squires drew him outside, bedroll under his arm. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be out there with them, driving home the message and ensuring they never allowed themselves to be taken by surprise like that again. But his feet led him away from them, taking him to stand outside Mindelan’s tent. He hesitated; this was a fool thing to do. Yet still he undid the ties and poked his head through into her tent. Almost immediately she was up, dagger half out before she recognised him.
He spoke first. A cautious tone entered his voice.
“Keladry?” Her head snapped up. Wyldon could see the question shining in her eyes, bright against the shadow that was her face. They both knew he never called her by her first name.
“My Lord,” she replied, struggling to sit up. “What is it?”
Wyldon hesitated, struggling with himself. He could, no, he should return to his tent. The snow and the chill on the wind would make for an uncomfortable night but he had survived worse in his younger years. He had no right to request this of her. If word got out her reputation would be destroyed, among conservatives and progressives both. They would be a scandal.
“Might I share your tent?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. The darkness was a blessing, hiding the rush of colour to his face. Wyldon foresaw the question she would ask and answered it before she raised it.
“Your former knight master saw fit to cut up my tent, in a show of victory. I understand that I have no right to request this, I will…”
“No, it’s alright,” she replied, embarrassment in her voice. Wyldon attempted to make out her face but the shadows were too dark. “I was just curious.”
Without another word, she rolled over to face the far side of the tent, offering him as much room as she could. Heat rose to her cheeks as her commander attempted to set up his bedroll without touching her. No doubt the pair of them would get very little sleep tonight, awkward as this situation was. She would definitely be having a talk with Raoul as soon as possible.
In spite of her belief, Keladry soon drifted off, weariness overcoming her embarrassed awareness of the man beside her. Wyldon on the other hand remained awake long after the noise of pages and squires had faded. Mortification played a part but he too was planning his next conversation with Goldenlake. After the noise of before, the silence that had fallen across the camp was almost eerie. A flash of comprehension went through him and everything suddenly made sense. After the anger subsided, Wyldon began to prepare his next meeting with haMinch. He would have quite a few things to say to the man about assigning him traitors.
Especially ones who pretended to snore so badly.
Message: Merry
From: nealnotdom
Title: Once More
Rating: G
Wishlist Item: 1- Wyldon. With a bit of Kel thrown in. 3- Pages. Not exactly PotS or SotL but I hope they are just as good. And I'm hoping I got this one in there. 4- Cute Moment.
Summary: When Wyldon agreed to supervise one last training exercise for haMinch, he wasn't expecting it to end up like this.
The snow drifted down, covering the forest in a thick, white carpet- the kind that you’d get a wet behind from sitting on, made almost ethereal by the light of the moon. The forest merged into a single unchanging barricade, individual trees nearly indefinable unless one was standing right in front of them. It was the middle of winter, a time where all but the bravest or most insane people and animals stayed indoors.
And obviously there were a few such people currently residing at the palace. A thorough overhead view of the forest might reveal several areas relatively clear of trees. And in one of these small clearings, several strange patches were just visible against the snow. Closer examination revealed them to be tents, belonging to the pages and squires at the palace. Some tents were embellished with a personal crest, revealing the knight it belonged to. This was a training exercise, pitting the current pages and unattached squires against the trainees of the Queen’s Riders and the King’s Own, who had temporarily forgone their rivalry in a joint effort to prove their superiority over the trainee knights.
The Own and the Riders were under the joint supervision of their commanders, Lord Sir Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie’s Peak and Buriram Tourakom, assisted by several of their officers. The pages and squires, however, were not under the command of their training master. Padraig haMinch had decided that the future knights were becoming too accustomed to taking orders from him and had called in a replacement; a man with plenty of prior practice, an abundance of skill as a commander and experience supervising knights-in-training.
HaMinch had handed the reins over to Wyldon of Cavall for one last time, or so he said. The king himself had requested Wyldon accept. It would be good, he had said, for the pages and squires to be commanded by someone other than their training master. And although Wyldon did not realise it, he was widely believed to be one of the best training masters alive.
The thought did not cross the lord of Cavall’s mind. He was far too busy planning to throttle haMinch, for among the list of supplies and redundant instructions was a short list of people who would be assisting him in the exercise. All were squireless knights, currently awaiting orders, and all but one were his former pages: Esmond of Nicoline, Yancen of Irenroha, Faleron of King’s Reach, Keladry of Mindelan and, gods save him, Nealan of Queenscove, along with his former knight mistress, Sir Alanna the Lioness. Wyldon had the sneaking suspicion that he had been set up, and haMinch confirmed this when he casually came around to ensure he had read everything. The other man had almost kept a straight face but his heaving shoulders gave him away. If they hadn’t been in public Wyldon would have throttled the man, there and then.
So now Wyldon was supervising more than thirty pages and squires as they set up tents and made plans and put into practice all the skills haMinch had supposedly drilled into them. All the while he was recalling exactly why he had always wanted to tie Queenscove’s tongue in knots. Baird’s son had already convinced half the squires to adopt his infuriating nickname- the Stump. Thankfully Mindelan had stepped in and shamed Queenscove into silence before Wyldon snapped and hung him from a tree. In time, the pages and squires had been convinced that Wyldon was serious when he told them that unless they had completed their tents before nightfall, he would throw their bedrolls into the trees and everyone would sleep in the snow. After that, he had finally gotten some peace, at least until it came time to set up cooking fires. From there his patience had been tested several times over the course of the evening.
Now though, night had truly fallen and the cold was beginning to set in. The pages and squires had all retreated to their tents, aside from those on sentry duty. They almost hadn’t had a sentry detail; every member of the group had overlooked that important aspect of their training. Each of the knights had watched with interest as the pages and squires prepared to turn in until several squires had at last remembered their training and made hasty arrangements. An argument had erupted as some of those chosen for the first watch protested at being forced to freeze for a few hours. It had only been ended when Wyldon had enlisted Keladry and Yancen to step in and help him head it off before they began fighting. Those on sentry had headed into the forest while the pages had withdrawn from the cold weather. Eventually even the squires had gone to bed, leaving the seven knights to gather around the remnants of the cooking fire.
Alanna was huddled up in her several layers of clothing, not talking to anyone. It amused Wyldon to no end, watching the fabled Lioness hunch down into a lump of clothing, nose as red as her hair. Her tongue was as sharp as ever and his comment about the weather had earned him a barbed reply. After that he had kept his peace. It wasn’t worth the punishment she would dish out on the fencing courts once the weather warmed.
Finally the chilly air overpowered the remaining heat from the fire. Alanna was the first to leave, scowling into a scarf. She threw a glare at Wyldon, one he ignored. She blamed him for her being here and Wyldon knew there was nothing he could do to change her mind.
Gradually the other knights departed for bed, Esmond and Faleron first, both debating over tactics and the advantages the trainee knights had over the trainees of the Riders and the Own. The pair of them were sharing a tent, claiming it was easier to put up and take down a slightly larger tent if two people were sharing the work. It was also warmer with two people in the tent. Most just left it at that and those that didn’t had a strange habit of showing up in odd places.
Irenroha left next, taking a small chunk of firewood with him. The boy, as Wyldon still thought of him, had an aptitude and an enjoyment of carving animals out of wood. He said nothing, simply standing and heading for his tent.
That left Mindelan, Queenscove and himself. The three of them had sat staring at the last of the dying embers, transfixed by the glow. Eventually Mindelan stood, yawns pervading her normal, emotionless mask. She had jabbed Queenscove, not too gently, wordlessly convincing him to leave. He had grumbled but risen and with an exaggerated bow to Wyldon and a sarcastic, “My Lord,” the infuriating knight had taken his leave. With a shake of her head, Mindelan had left for her own tent.
Not long after, Wyldon had turned in. If the pages and squires wanted to win this, they would have to get up early, meaning he would as well. As he ducked into his tent, a movement made him look up. Queenscove had returned to the fireplace and was apparently attempting to do something to it, if the green balls of light were any indication. Wyldon left him to it. If Queenscove wanted to throw magic at the ashes all night, so be it. As he slipped into the light sleep of a man used to battle, the last though to cross his mind was that he almost pitied the Lioness. Having that boy as a squire would have been infuriating.
Several hours later, a sudden crackling snort jolted Wyldon awake. For some minutes he kept up a façade of sleep, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and examining the interior of his tent to find the source of the noise. Finding none, he opened his eyes to hear the bizarre sound being repeated. And again. It seemed to be coming from outside his tent, across the campsite, if he could trust his ears. A brief struggle followed this observation as Wyldon tried to untangle his bedroll. Finally he managed to sit up and untie his tent flap, gritting his teeth as his head was thrust into the chilly air outside.
It was that peculiar time of night, where everything was black and white, shadows covering the camp, and all was silent, until that noise pierced the silence yet again. Wyldon guessed it was nearing or just past the middle of the night as he examined the campsite. There was nothing to suggest the origins of the noise that had awoken him. Again the silence was broken and this time the noise was followed by a grunting snuffle. It had come from the other side of the camp, Wyldon was certain. Suddenly he worked it out. But that wasn’t possible. Waiting for the sound again, Wyldon stared in the direction of Queenscove’s tent. It was definitely him. Mithros, how could anyone snore so loudly? Surely it was impossible? But no, it was definitely the boy and he was snoring fit to waken the dead.
The noise started again and Wyldon had just resolved to throttle Queenscove when he heard the rustle of another tent flap. His eyes flicked over the camp, spying the patch of colour that was the Lioness’s hair. She too was looking over at Queenscove’s tent and as he watched, she fumbled with the ties of her tent and stepped out into the snow, several sizes larger than usual due to her extra clothing. In a hurried dash, Alanna shuffled over to Queenscove’s tent, fumbling with his tent. Finally she undid the ties and poked her head through the flap. Wyldon waited; satisfied that she would end the horrendous noises coming from Queenscove. However after several moments, she withdrew her head, twisting to shuffle awkwardly back to her own tent.
“Lady Alanna, control your squire!” Wyldon hissed across the camp, loud enough for her to hear but hopefully quiet enough not to awaken the sleeping pages and squires.
Alanna stopped, hand on the flap of her tent. Her teeth flashed white in the surrounding darkness as she replied. “He was your page before my squire, Cavall. Control him yourself.”
And with that she practically dove back into her own tent. A brief flare of purple announced to him that she had deadened the noise inside her tent, preventing Queenscove from interrupting her sleep. Fuming, Wyldon didn’t realise he had company until a stifled laugh reached him. Turning, he saw Mindelan, a hand clamped over her mouth. About to say something, he was cut off by the sound of several tents being opened. The sight that met him as he turned back to the campsite, intending to end the disturbance, nearly made him curse.
The exchange between he and the Lioness had not gone unnoticed, as he had hoped. Squires and pages were poking their heads out of tents around the camp, intrigued by the argument. Or possibly by the outlandish sounds issuing from Queenscove. Several bolder souls were stepping out into the snow, carefully making their way to the ashes near the centre of the camp, marking the long dead fire. They milled around for a few minutes, uncertain of what to do next. Then a shadowy figure began picking their way in the direction of Queenscove’s tent, a figure he recognised by the toss of her head and her proud posture. Clara of Secrest, one of the three female squires, led the way through the tents, stopping outside the tent. The others milled around her, seeming confused. Then whispers started, growing louder as they began to understand what was happening.
A figure detached itself from the group and hurried back over to the fireplace, where many of the pages and squires had gathered, anxious for information. Several sentries had joined them, Wyldon saw, and more were filtering back through the trees. An outbreak of whispers ensued, followed by an skeptical denial.
“That’s not possible,” came Edmund of Fairs Peak’s voice, clear over the snores. “No one could possibly make that much noise and stay asleep.”
“Obviously he can,” the shadow, now recognizable as Danzis of the Sunset Dragon tribe, retorted sharply. Over the course of the day, Wyldon had noticed that the boy disliked being told he was wrong. “He’s doing it now.”
Another flurry of conversation. Then the group began to stream over to the tent, in ones and twos that soon ended with every last page and squire in the camp, surrounding Queenscove’s tent and its unsuspecting occupant. A patch of colour drew Wyldon’s attention to the Lioness’s tent. Once again her head was poking out of the flap. This time she seemed content to watch the events unfold. From there, Wyldon noticed several outlines against the tents containing to the other knights. No one appeared to want to halt the proceedings and all remained still, as not to draw the trainee knights’ attention. To his surprise, Wyldon realised that he and Mindelan were doing the same. As supervisor for this exercise, it was his role to send the errant pages and squires back to their bedrolls but he found himself unwilling to do so. This was a test of their ability to think for themselves in dangerous situations. His taking active command would defeat the purpose of the exercise.
Movement alerted him to the fact that said errant beings were up to something. Through the mass of shadows that formed the cluster, he could make out the shadow that was Secrest scrabbling with the tie to Queenscove’s tent. It appeared that the Lioness knew her knots because the girl appeared to be having some difficulty in undoing the tether. A number of indistinguishable outlines moved to help her and soon the tie appeared to give way. Secrest cautiously pushed her head through the flap, into the tent. And for a moment the entire camp, Wyldon included, seemed to hold its breath. Aside from Queenscove.
A scream shattered the momentary silence and Secrest practically flew back from the tent, forcing her way through the onlookers.
“What?!” came Queenscove’s voice, spluttering with shock. For a moment his dry wit was rendered silent as he appeared to attempt to figure out what had happened. “Foul creatures of…yargh!”
The shout of fresh shock triggered the watching pages and squires, breaking the spell that had kept them silent. With a obscure shout becoming their war cry, the horde swarmed the tent, with the exception of Secrest who appeared to be scrabbling in her tent, yanking out her weapon. Their charge was cut short by the emergence of a trio of trainee Riders from Queenscove’s tent. The sudden appearance caused the mass to falter, long enough for the three to draw their weapons. Despite the initial advantage their surprise manifestation had given them, the three were hopelessly outnumbered and Wyldon knew without a doubt that they would be overcome without reinforcements.
Sadly for the pages and squires, those reinforcements were close by. In the silence that followed the shock appearance of the Riders, a low thunder could be heard in the forest, morphing into a howl as the combined forces of the Rider and Own trainees burst from the trees, pouring into the small campsite. They fell on the stunned and unarmed pages and squires, inflicting massive damage on them, even with training weapons.
To their credit, the pages and squires recovered quickly. After they grasped the fact that they were under attack, small knots began to form, using feet, fists and every other body part usable to force their way to tents, recovering weapons and attempting to arm as many as possible. Several groups came together; forcing their way through the trainees to other bunches of trainee knights, trying to form a defendable formation. And for several frantic moments, as the momentum of the Riders and the Own faded and the pages and squires began to fight back, it appeared that a win for the trainee knights was viable. Likely even. They pushed back against the packs of the Riders that came in to nip at their weak points and hacked at the multitude formed by the Own. Wyldon was almost certain they could repel the invaders, sending them back to the forest, if not defeating them.
Then a whistle sounded and the Own and Riders melted back into the trees, leaving the mass of pages and squires that had managed to recover in time to group together in anticipation of the next attack. A groan escaped Wyldon as he realised what was about to happen. The clustering made the remaining pages and squires an easy target for the volleys of arrows that rained down on them from the trees. Another whistle blew and it was all over. The Riders and the Own surged back into the clearing, descending on the confused ranks of pages and squires, decimating them. Within five minutes the battle was over. A handful of trainee knights remained, hands being bound with their own tent ties by the Riders while the Own painstakingly disassembled all the tents, neatly folding them up and throwing the folded squares of material into the trees. A low moan rose from the survivors of the attack. Without the tents, it would be a very long, very cold night. Even getting the tents out of the tree would be pointless, as the snow would have gotten to them long before they could be reached.
Their work done, the Riders and Own left, congratulating each other and hurling insults and advice at the sullen pages and squires. Luckily for them, the Riders had run out of tent ties for the ‘dead’ pages and squires and before long they had begun to recover from their injuries. The ten or so unbound began to move amongst their fellows, releasing them and helping to gather their belongings, now scattered across the campsite. A few began an attempt to rescue their tents but most resigned themselves to sleeping under trees.
Mindelan sighed and Wyldon started, having forgotten she was there. He had been preoccupied with what he was planning on informing the pages and squires in the morning, before they returned to the castle.
“I guess I had best start packing,” Mindelan murmured, rising to her feet and making her way over to her tent. “It looks like this exercise is over.”
“That it does,” Wyldon replied dejectedly. There would be a long line of people who would be in no hurry to allow him to forget this incident. The commanders of the Own and the Riders would be only the first.
As if echoing his thoughts, Mindelan stopped outside her tent and looked back at him. Was he imagining things or could he hear a hint of sympathy in her voice? “You realise Raoul will never let you forget this. No matter how many times you throw him from the saddle, he will bring this up at every possible moment.”
“I know that, Mindelan,” he snapped. “I have been on training exercises with Goldenlake before.” Almost immediately he regretted the words but recognizing them as true, he refused to apologise. Mindelan would understand that, he knew.
With a faint tilt of her head, barely visible in the darkness, she accepted his words. “I’ll talk to him,” she said, amusement in her voice. Then, before he could respond, she disappeared into her tent. The sound of packing reached his ears and with a sigh of his own, Wyldon ducked down to crawl back into his own tent. Mindelan was right; packing tonight would be a fair idea. After all, with the noise the pages and squires were making, it was unlikely anyone would be getting any sleep for the next few hours.
Later Wyldon would look back on the night and condemn himself for a fool. Like he had told Mindelan, he had been on training exercises with Raoul of Goldenlake before. And had lost his share of them. In hindsight, he should have anticipated the next move. When he turned to his bedroll, he should have expected the sight that met him.
But he didn’t. Instead, he started to see Raoul of Goldenlake, reclining on his bedroll, feet propped one on top of the other, hands behind his head and a triumphant smirk on his face.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised, Cavall. After all this time, I would’ve thought you would have expected this.”
“Not surprised, Goldenlake, merely bored,” Wyldon lied, recovering himself. “And a little curious. Why do you persist in such pointless antics?”
Raoul pulled himself into a sitting position before clambering to his feet. In the small tent he was bent almost double. The smirk remained on his face as he replied.
“Well,” he began, tone suggesting the explanation would take a while. “You just lost the training exercise. Now that on its own could be passed off on haMinch’s training, which would both protect your reputation and deprive me of bragging rights. But if I can get this close to you…” the smirk on his face entered his voice as he snapped a hand up to hover near Wyldon’s face. The older man didn’t flinch and Raoul turned to leave, lifting the corner of the tent to reveal the slit seams from top to bottom. He stepped out, into the night, pausing to finish the sentence.
“…Well that can hardly be blamed on haMinch.”
Raoul withdrew, leaving a humiliated Wyldon to glare after him, through the cut seams that marked his exit.
A breath of wind helped snow into the tent via Raoul’s impromptu doorway. It broke Wyldon’s trance and a curse escaped his lips, muttered as he collected his bedroll before it could be ruined. The sound of his defeated pages and squires drew him outside, bedroll under his arm. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be out there with them, driving home the message and ensuring they never allowed themselves to be taken by surprise like that again. But his feet led him away from them, taking him to stand outside Mindelan’s tent. He hesitated; this was a fool thing to do. Yet still he undid the ties and poked his head through into her tent. Almost immediately she was up, dagger half out before she recognised him.
He spoke first. A cautious tone entered his voice.
“Keladry?” Her head snapped up. Wyldon could see the question shining in her eyes, bright against the shadow that was her face. They both knew he never called her by her first name.
“My Lord,” she replied, struggling to sit up. “What is it?”
Wyldon hesitated, struggling with himself. He could, no, he should return to his tent. The snow and the chill on the wind would make for an uncomfortable night but he had survived worse in his younger years. He had no right to request this of her. If word got out her reputation would be destroyed, among conservatives and progressives both. They would be a scandal.
“Might I share your tent?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. The darkness was a blessing, hiding the rush of colour to his face. Wyldon foresaw the question she would ask and answered it before she raised it.
“Your former knight master saw fit to cut up my tent, in a show of victory. I understand that I have no right to request this, I will…”
“No, it’s alright,” she replied, embarrassment in her voice. Wyldon attempted to make out her face but the shadows were too dark. “I was just curious.”
Without another word, she rolled over to face the far side of the tent, offering him as much room as she could. Heat rose to her cheeks as her commander attempted to set up his bedroll without touching her. No doubt the pair of them would get very little sleep tonight, awkward as this situation was. She would definitely be having a talk with Raoul as soon as possible.
In spite of her belief, Keladry soon drifted off, weariness overcoming her embarrassed awareness of the man beside her. Wyldon on the other hand remained awake long after the noise of pages and squires had faded. Mortification played a part but he too was planning his next conversation with Goldenlake. After the noise of before, the silence that had fallen across the camp was almost eerie. A flash of comprehension went through him and everything suddenly made sense. After the anger subsided, Wyldon began to prepare his next meeting with haMinch. He would have quite a few things to say to the man about assigning him traitors.
Especially ones who pretended to snore so badly.
And victorious!Raoul is definitely one of my favourites 
Nicely done!
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!