Post by Seek on Apr 4, 2015 18:38:44 GMT 10
Series: A Pale View of Hills
Title: Parley
Rating: PG
Event: AU Archery
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 599 words
Summary: AU where the hillmen clans do manage to elect a king; where Mattes' clan isn't destroyed, and when they begin to push back against King Roger. [Note: I used a Greek + Celtic motif for the hillmen, working entirely off the fact that Mattes has a Biblical Greek name. This may not have been the wisest of decisions ]
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The blood is barely drying off the spears when the king’s emissary enters the camp, her battered helmet held casually under an arm. She’s almost as tall as Mattes himself, and the steel sword at her side is jauntily angled for a quick draw.
So much for the parley then, Mattes thinks, almost sardonically, as he greets her. He is unarmed, at least, though the heavy dory-spear of the hillmen is in easy reach, and a few worn makhaira lean against a weapons rack by the cookfires. “Lady—”
“Lady Knight Sabine of Macayhill,” she says, “Acting-commander of the king’s forces.” The last time Mattes has seen the actual commander, someone had put a long hillman spear through him; just to the side of his sternum. Not exactly the sort of thing that leads to a long healthy life, he thinks, though doubtless the kingsmen have healers that can do something about that. Perhaps the old knight will be back on the fields of battle soon enough.
“I’m Mattes,” he replies. No need for praise-names here, or his father’s name. “I regret to mention that my cousin isn’t in, commander.”
She raises an eyebrow. When she speaks, her voice has gone deceptively quiet. “You mean to tell me,” Sabine says, hefting the helmet very thoughtfully, “That King Gloukias has arranged for a parley with the Crown and has thereafter decided to depart the camp on unspecified business?” She stares at him. “Is he taking the parley at all seriously?”
“I can hardly speak for what might be in my cousin’s mind,” Mattes replies, calmly. “We do, of course, have a very good stew for dinner. Beans, beans, and beans.”
He startles a laugh from her. “And I suppose I’ll not be allowed to wander around the camp,” says the lady knight.
“Not without an armed escort, no,” Mattes agrees. “It’s for your own safety, lady, you understand that? Some of the men see a kingsman—or a kingswoman—and their hands twitch straight for the nearest spear. Wouldn’t want you to have to be picking ash splinters from your armour.”
That startles another laugh. “I can take care of myself,” she informs him, but there’s amusement in her voice. She’s sizing him up too; he’s taller than her, but with the muscles that comes from hours of hard work with the makhaira and the heavy ash-spear that’s the traditional weapons in the land the kingsmen name the hill country.
“I don’t doubt that,” he says, seriously, and feels as though they’re fencing with words rather than blades, testing each other out. He wouldn’t like to face a trained swordsman with the makhaira. He’s a decent swordsman but not much of a fighter. His skills lie elsewhere; he makes people laugh, he keeps the camp together and the looting and ill-treatment of prisoners to a minimum. There’s no law out there in the hills, the kingsmen say, and the hillmen are cynical about the King’s law, but now they’ve acclaimed Gloukias king, there’s a rush to revive some form of order before the push into the lowlands. “Then do it at least for the sake of our armourers,” he tells her. “Making a good spear is hard work, and you’d think someone would consider their feelings before breaking it on the nearest emissary.”
“Yes,” Sabine says, eyes glittering with mischievous laughter. “Someone has to care for the armourers’ feelings. It’s a difficult task, after all. Where’s the bean stew you’ve promised me, then?”
“This way,” he says, and he dares to take her shoulder and guide her to the cookfires.
Title: Parley
Rating: PG
Event: AU Archery
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 599 words
Summary: AU where the hillmen clans do manage to elect a king; where Mattes' clan isn't destroyed, and when they begin to push back against King Roger. [Note: I used a Greek + Celtic motif for the hillmen, working entirely off the fact that Mattes has a Biblical Greek name. This may not have been the wisest of decisions ]
-
The blood is barely drying off the spears when the king’s emissary enters the camp, her battered helmet held casually under an arm. She’s almost as tall as Mattes himself, and the steel sword at her side is jauntily angled for a quick draw.
So much for the parley then, Mattes thinks, almost sardonically, as he greets her. He is unarmed, at least, though the heavy dory-spear of the hillmen is in easy reach, and a few worn makhaira lean against a weapons rack by the cookfires. “Lady—”
“Lady Knight Sabine of Macayhill,” she says, “Acting-commander of the king’s forces.” The last time Mattes has seen the actual commander, someone had put a long hillman spear through him; just to the side of his sternum. Not exactly the sort of thing that leads to a long healthy life, he thinks, though doubtless the kingsmen have healers that can do something about that. Perhaps the old knight will be back on the fields of battle soon enough.
“I’m Mattes,” he replies. No need for praise-names here, or his father’s name. “I regret to mention that my cousin isn’t in, commander.”
She raises an eyebrow. When she speaks, her voice has gone deceptively quiet. “You mean to tell me,” Sabine says, hefting the helmet very thoughtfully, “That King Gloukias has arranged for a parley with the Crown and has thereafter decided to depart the camp on unspecified business?” She stares at him. “Is he taking the parley at all seriously?”
“I can hardly speak for what might be in my cousin’s mind,” Mattes replies, calmly. “We do, of course, have a very good stew for dinner. Beans, beans, and beans.”
He startles a laugh from her. “And I suppose I’ll not be allowed to wander around the camp,” says the lady knight.
“Not without an armed escort, no,” Mattes agrees. “It’s for your own safety, lady, you understand that? Some of the men see a kingsman—or a kingswoman—and their hands twitch straight for the nearest spear. Wouldn’t want you to have to be picking ash splinters from your armour.”
That startles another laugh. “I can take care of myself,” she informs him, but there’s amusement in her voice. She’s sizing him up too; he’s taller than her, but with the muscles that comes from hours of hard work with the makhaira and the heavy ash-spear that’s the traditional weapons in the land the kingsmen name the hill country.
“I don’t doubt that,” he says, seriously, and feels as though they’re fencing with words rather than blades, testing each other out. He wouldn’t like to face a trained swordsman with the makhaira. He’s a decent swordsman but not much of a fighter. His skills lie elsewhere; he makes people laugh, he keeps the camp together and the looting and ill-treatment of prisoners to a minimum. There’s no law out there in the hills, the kingsmen say, and the hillmen are cynical about the King’s law, but now they’ve acclaimed Gloukias king, there’s a rush to revive some form of order before the push into the lowlands. “Then do it at least for the sake of our armourers,” he tells her. “Making a good spear is hard work, and you’d think someone would consider their feelings before breaking it on the nearest emissary.”
“Yes,” Sabine says, eyes glittering with mischievous laughter. “Someone has to care for the armourers’ feelings. It’s a difficult task, after all. Where’s the bean stew you’ve promised me, then?”
“This way,” he says, and he dares to take her shoulder and guide her to the cookfires.