Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter 11: The Bard

After bidding farewell to the Free Company, they journeyed for another week before finally reaching their destination: Norlandon Fort. To be precise, it could hardly be called a “castle” yet—at its core, it was only an outpost, a square-shaped station enclosed by wooden palisades over nine feet tall, stretching about a hundred paces in circumference, with a single large gate and an arrow tower fifteen feet high at each corner.

The outpost’s garrison was vigilant enough. Upon seeing a group nearly a hundred strong approaching, they swiftly shut the gate and sounded the alarm horn. Soon after, over twenty soldiers appeared on the walls, weapons in hand. Fearing misunderstandings, Berion had Eomer carry his banner and credentials forward to parley. Once the garrison’s commander met with them, the alarm was lifted; Berion met with the commander, the court knight, and Sir Pippin, the Deputy Sheriff of the Shire under the direct authority of the county. They exchanged the necessary paperwork and formalities.

After the handover, Sir Pippin took his leave with his men. Before departing, he advised Berion, “Sir Berion, once you’ve settled your people, you should make haste to Amdine City to pay respects to our superior, Viscount Merry. The garrison’s pay and rations are all subject to the Lord’s approval; you may be able to secure a better arrangement.”

Receiving such goodwill from his predecessor, Berion returned it in kind by gifting Sir Pippin a bronze flask he’d received from the governor of Norma Shire and promised to share a good drink together in Amdine City one day.

After seeing them off, Berion officially inspected the outpost. During the handover, he’d only glanced at the two most important buildings—the armory and the granary. Both were spotless inside, yet aside from a few moldy loaves of bread, they were empty.

Norlandon Outpost was a typical wooden fort. Built on level ground, it occupied the highest available spot. The outer walls were constructed from timber felled in the nearby forest. As a military post, it boasted double-layered palisades secured with iron nails, sturdy enough, with walkways along the top for sentries and the four arrow towers at each corner.

Within, the main building was a two-story wooden house, once the commander’s residence and the kitchen, now to serve as Berion’s lordly manor. In addition, there was a stable, a lumber shed stocked with seasoned elm and oak left untouched by previous officers—Sir Pippin had thought it a waste to burn such fine timber as firewood, so it remained stacked there.

There were also three barracks for soldiers, a granary, an armory, and a storeroom. Though somewhat worn, the place was more complete than Berion had expected. At least there was shelter, storage, and space to billet his men—while housing seventy might be cramped, in this cold climate, crowding together would be warmer.

By then, dusk had fallen. Berion instructed Mark to have several women prepare the evening meal, while he led the men to unload the wagons: arms and armor into the armory, foodstuffs and cloth into the granary, and tools for clearing land and logging into the storeroom. The most crucial item—the cash chest—he placed in his own bedroom on the second floor, keeping watch over it himself. When the wooden outpost was rebuilt in stone, with a proper treasury, he would entrust it to Mark.

That night, Berion ordered the kitchen to prepare roast meat and stew, and had several casks of ale opened. Having arrived at the place where their future would be built, he wanted to fill his people with hope. Over food and drink, he painted a vivid picture of days to come—where each would have a home, good clothes, enough to eat and drink. He drew upon every ounce of his former salesman’s eloquence, inspiring all; their eyes shone with new light.

Early the next morning, after breakfast, Berion set out for Amdine City with Eomer and Tur, to report to their superior, Viscount Merry, as Sir Pippin had urged. It was important to petition the shire for support with his men’s wages.

Norlandon Fort was not far from Amdine City. Riding hard, the three made the journey in half a day. Amdine was a small town: its low stone walls stood barely as high as a man, topped with wooden palisades nine feet tall, and only ten arrow towers in all. Still, as the county seat of a ducal shire, it was safe from noble feuds and rarely attacked, so fortifying the walls further would have been pointless. Despite its modest defenses, the town bustled with merchants and travelers, appearing far more prosperous than most northern settlements Berion had seen.

Eomer presented Berion’s commission and appointment to the gate guards, and the three entered without trouble. Yet, in truth, the town’s streets and sanitation were abysmal—a veritable twin to the Salted Fish Market in Valombrey. Mud covered every surface and droppings lay everywhere, so it was little wonder people here favored tall boots.

Suppressing their disgust, they hurried through the streets to the governor’s residence. After slipping the guards a tip of twenty solis, they were ushered to the Viscount’s study, where they met Viscount Merry.

“Honored sir, your loyal subordinate, Deputy Sheriff Berion Tucker of the ducal shire, presents his credentials and commission.” Berion laid the parchment documents on the desk.

The Viscount glanced up, smiling. “Sit, Sir Berion.” He picked up the commission, read it, and set it down.

“Sir Berion, last week I received word of your appointment as Deputy Sheriff. Then this week, another letter arrived changing your post to Inspector, with a new commission.” Viscount Merry smiled wryly, showing him both documents.

Berion saw that the duties were much the same, only the rank was lower—Inspector was typically an apprentice’s post—but it made little difference to him. Clearly, his original position had been claimed by some noble with powerful connections.

Accepting this, Berion produced the gift he’d prepared for Viscount Merry: a small, finely carved wooden box he’d bought in Norma City. He placed it respectfully before the Viscount. “My lord, serving you is honor enough, whatever the title. Please, accept this small token of my esteem.”

The Viscount, seeing that Berion was not dispirited by the demotion and even offered him a gift, became intrigued. Opening the box, he found it filled with silver coins—at least a hundred. Closing the box with a smile, he said, “Sir Berion, your gift is generous indeed. How could I possibly accept it?”

“Oh, my lord,” replied Berion, “Norlandon Fort is at the very beginning of its founding, and I am new to courtly office. There will be many matters where I’ll need your guidance and protection. I beg you, do not refuse.”

The Viscount nodded. “Very well, I accept. Thank you.”

Berion then broached the subject of the shire supporting some of his Inspectors’ wages. The Viscount agreed readily, but clarified the rules: the shire would provide salaries for up to ten men at a rate of fifty solis per week, but would not supply arms or armor. However, the shire could provide monthly rations and cloth as a special favor, and wrote an order on the spot for Berion to collect his first month’s pay and supplies from the treasurer.

Even a little is better than nothing, and Berion was pleased. But the Viscount soon reminded him that every official was subject to palace scrutiny. As Inspector of the ducal shire, Berion would be responsible for the southern bank of the River Karl and the Stagwood trade road, and should any merchant be robbed on his watch, he was expected to present at least ten bandits’ heads that year.

Berion well knew that no road in the duchy was free of banditry—meaning he would have to fight outlaws, or risk faking results. He had heard of some sheriffs and inspectors presenting the heads of prisoners or serfs as bandits to satisfy the court, but though he would accept some of the era’s rules, he could not bring himself to commit such atrocities. Fortunately, with solid men and good weapons at hand, he felt confident he could handle real outlaws.

Their meeting ended near dusk. The Viscount did not invite him to dinner, and Berion took the hint; a man of his rank had no right to expect a court viscount to dine with him. By then, the treasurer would also have left for home, so Berion and his companions found an inn for the night, planning to buy several sturdy mules and a cart the next day—to solve both the livestock shortage in his domain and to transport the shire’s grain and cloth.

Settled in the inn, the three went down to the common room for food and ale. A bard was entertaining the crowd with a tale of two knights’ duel.

“Though Sir Berion was mocked, he held his temper. Just as Sir Yellen was about to leave, one of Berion’s men appeared with a poached wild boar. The sight enraged Sir Yellen…” The bard was recounting the story of Berion’s duel with Sir Yellen.

“What bad luck, having a subordinate like that—only brings trouble,” someone commented.

“Tell me about it! Just like my stupid son, always fighting and causing problems for me.”

Berion and Tur laughed—one had lived the story, the other knew it well—while Eomer paid it no mind, eating and drinking heartily.

The bard continued, describing the duel in vivid detail. In his telling, Berion, inheritor of the Dawn Sword, felled Sir Yellen with a single strike; he even embellished that Sir Yellen wept and his four squires went weak in the knees at the mention of the Dawn Sword. Such flourishes delighted the inn’s patrons.

After the tale, the bard went table to table seeking tips. His performance had been good, so many tossed copper coins into his battered cap—some one or two, some three or five. When he reached Berion’s table, Berion dropped in a silver coin, much to the bard’s delight. He fished the denar from the pile of coppers and bowed to Berion. “Kind sir, may the Fire God bless you with so many denars you cannot store them all, may he…”

Seeing he was about to wax extravagant, Berion raised a hand to stop him. “Good sir, your story was well told. My tip is not for flattery, but for this: every time you visit a new tavern, every time you meet strangers, I hope you will recount how the brave and noble Sir Berion defeated the wicked Sir Yellen.”

With a glance at Eomer, Berion added, “And perhaps, you might adjust the part about Berion’s squire poaching and causing trouble. Perhaps, say, Sir Yellen envied the squire’s good looks and resented him for it. I’ll pay you another denar for the revision.” He tossed another silver coin into the cap.

The bard, overjoyed, offered more thanks and moved on.

After he left, Eomer glared at Berion. “Should I be grateful or offended?”

Tur chuckled, “Of course you should thank our lord, my good Eomer.”

Before Tur could finish, Eomer kicked him. “You, too, mock me?”

Eomer bore a battle scar from his early years under Sir Logan—a mark on his face that, while not disfiguring, kept him from being handsome. He often joked about it himself. The three bantered a while longer before heading upstairs for rest.

The next morning, Berion went to the treasurer’s office, only to find him out collecting taxes with the revenue officer. But the treasurer’s clerk was there, and seeing the Viscount’s token, he handed Berion the month’s wages—one hundred and twenty denars for four weeks—and told them to return with a cart to collect the rations and cloth.

Thanking the clerk, they visited the market in Amdine, purchasing six strong blue mules for three hundred denars, and a nearly new two-wheeled cart for thirty more, harnessing one mule to it.

Mules, though sterile, are hardy and disease-resistant, thrive on poor feed, endure heavy labor, and are long-lived—serving twenty to thirty years, more valuable than horses or donkeys. For this reason, Berion chose mules over horses. Eomer also bought two hunting dogs, both over two years old and able to guard the estate. Berion had not intended to buy them, but seeing how much Eomer and Tur liked them, and that the price was reasonable, he agreed.