The Tightening Noose

The gray dawn glittered down dimly from the hulking clouds, exposing the running, walking and staggering men below. Some leaned on their spears and pikes like staffs as they went, all of them beaten and battered. The blue and silver waters of the lake lapped gently at the shores, as the scattered and weary remnants of House Kairok’s army hurried southward away from the battlefield, in sight of their House and Capital. Dull clouds still overhung the sky, hiding the morning light mostly from view, though it was far better than the black storm clouds behind them, in the north. And close.
Very close now, the glinting towers and domes of House Kairok waited to greet the retreating army, where it stood on the lake shore overlooking its territory. Blue and green, like the colors of the lake, the House itself was a masterpiece of art, built of blue-green stone from the far mountains of the dwarves and lined with silver and gray rock. Though it was a fairly small House, barely big enough to be a called a luxurious fort, it was the palace of the family of Viscount Andrew. Standing guard on the shore, it watched it’s men and soldiers slowly trickle back into it, out of the catastrophe of the battle two nights before.
The viscount himself was half holding, half dragging another man along with the help of one of his captains, a wounded veteran who wasn’t able to keep up at last due to loss of blood. The man grunted once in a while, a grim look twisted on his face as he refused to cry out in pain, a man of many campaigns. They trudged up the last gentle slope, a soft green hill, the last one that separated Andrew from his House, just over the crest. Already one or two of the tower tips glittered from the far side as he staggered up the rise.
His men, or what was left of his command, was scattered here and there also climbing up the hillside, perhaps a few dozen in all. Though some groups had gotten scattered in other directions or were either ahead and had fallen behind, the majority of his men were with him working their way up the rise. A rise they had proudly marched over a week before, even if nervously.
The man he was holding stumbled, and the viscount stumbled with him, stopping to pick his friend back up. His captain, the one holding on to the wounded man’s other arm, called for one of the less injured soldiers close by to come and help, and the three of them managed to clamber up to the crest of the hill, the seriously hurt carl soldier in tow.
“That’s a blessed sight.” Andrew’s captain murmured, and the viscount nodded wearily. His home, the small but strong House of Kairok and House of the Lake, still stood proudly by the beaches. Here and there below him, on the grassy plains between him and the small manor, a few more soldiers and carls were seen trudging back towards the main gates. A small trickle of men was all that had made it alive out of that massacre two nights before, he mused grimly.
They got about halfway down the far side of the gentle slope, the three of them holding up one wounded man, before the mighty gates finally opened, and the manor let back in all its carls. With a groan and a few shouts from the gatehouse, the wooden and metal doors swung outward, revealing a courtyard of lesser nobles and manor servants within. Andrew narrowed his eyes to see all he could, but his vision was blurred, perhaps slightly injured. They staggered on down the hill, coming down onto the open field between them and the house. A few dotted areas of glades and trees stood here and there in the distance, the surrounding countryside a pretty, even if flat and open, place. The gray clouds above them dimly lit up the scene still…the black clouds behind them rumbled distantly.
Looking back over his shoulder, the viscount studied the black clouds, and the man struggling over the hill.
“God help us.” He muttered, and went on.
“God help us all.” The captain agreed, both going grimly silent.
When there was a clatter of horse hooves and the sound of a river approaching, all of them looked up. What appeared to be a small train of horsemen, wearing his father’s emblem, were riding out of the House gates and towards them, their house banner fluttering in the wind over their heads.
The captain watched them for a moment, straining to help hold up the wounded man, and nodded towards them. “They recognize you, my lord viscount.” He commented as the hoses veered off directly for them.
Andrew looked up. He gazed at the coming riders for just a moment before recognizing the foremost one, who rode with his battle armor ready and even sword in hand as though he expected enemies to appear over the hill any moment.
“FATHER!” The viscount shouted, leaving the wounded, struggling man to be helped on by the other few soldiers to make a dash towards his father, Count of House Kairok.
The count had been an imposing man in his prime, but now that his middle to elderly years were upon him, nearly sixty summers old, his arms were not as strong or tough as they used to be. Even at that, though, once the news had reached him that an enemy army marched towards his lands and house, he had turned back immediately from the Ilelphosta Council, and hurried with all speed back home. To find that his son, like any good, dutiful, strong son, was already leading the house defenses. The poor count couldn’t decide whether to feel proud or sorrow, anger or joy to see his son responsibly and courageously leading his men to war…and into a full retreat. It was his own battered carl guards that returned staggering over that hill.
“Ach, thank God! My son!” The count of Kairok easily dismounted, though more stiffly than he used to, and embraced his son, bloody, broken armor and all, sword in hand. Strejwan, Count of Kairok, looked nearly as haggard as his son did, just to see half his land and army gone upon his return. He was a decent sized man, even perhaps a little short, but lithe and strong despite his age. His darkened skin, tanned well over the hard years, was half hidden under his slight dark beard and mustache. Gray, grim eyes gazed pointedly out of the hood of his cloak.
The first words out of his son’s mouth, as soon as the embrace was finished, kept coming like pouring water behind a dam. “I’m sorry, father, I’m so sorry…there was too many, we couldn’t hold the lines, and the men couldn’t handle…handle the trolls and elves and goblins and black sorcery, we tried! God knows we tried, but nothing would stop them! We…lost most of the upper lake lands, half the army is coming back. We can resemble it and defend the keep, and get mother out to the south. Women. Children.” He glanced behind at the weary men of Kairok. The poor comrade who had needed three of his friends to support him hobbled past, not even able to nod to his liege lord, nearly coughing up blood.
The viscount opened his mouth again to speak more words of apology and frustration, and perhaps some fear, until his father held up a mail gloved hand. “Enough, son! Did you do your best to hold them back?”
“I did, father.”
“Was there no chance?”
“…Not really, father. Very little.” He paused. “No, none. I doubt three house armies could have stopped that.”
The count nodded grimly. “Then you did well. Excellent, my son.”
Andrew smiled, faintly, sadly. He knew what it cost his father to say that, when his own armies were coming over that hill in pieces and his lands burning around him.
He was surprised to hear his father next. “BLAST THEM.” The old, gentlemanly warrior spat, “The one week I am NOT at my lands, in my house, doing what I should be doing, is the ONE week that my land gets surprised, flanked, and besieged overnight!” He uttered a few more, angry curses before turning back to his horse, fuming. Andrew stood behind, watching him go with his own heart bleeding for his father and men.
The Count turned, fixing his gray, commanding eyes on Andrew again. “How close are they behind?”
His son thought a moment. “Perhaps a few days, rather close.” He shrugged. Someone nearby cried out in pain as comrades dragged comrades back towards their House and barracks. Already a few House servants were running out, offering help, water, and healing herbs.
Strejwan nodded. He offered a small smile for his son. The best he could do.
He had just lost about half his life’s work in a week. It still didn’t seem real.
“Very well. We’ll prepare the walls and call in a garrison, and prepare for them to come again. And,” He thought a moment, staring up at the hill where his men still struggled over. “We’ll send someone to the Council to call for help. They have to know.”
The viscount agreed entirely. “By all means.” He paused. “Where is mother?”
“In the courtyard waiting.” The count gestured towards the blue-green House of lake stone behind him, where already a good deal of activity was going on.
Count Strejwan mounted back up on his war horse, shouting to his cavalier battalion behind him to spread out, watch the hills, and generally aid in the retreat. As he trotted off, Andrew watched him go, his heart bleeding and still proud of his strong, sorrowful father. Squaring his shoulders, his eyes blurred for a moment as he cried for his father. And mother. And land. And house. And his men. It was a tearful kind of day. He strode off towards the open gates and courtyard.

“ANDREW, thank God!” Countess Hytira cried out in tearful relief when her son appeared, weary and numb, among the soldiers and retreating carls. Quickly making her way through the crowds of servants, carls and stable boys, she ran to and wrapped her son in a massive embrace. When she stepped back to survey her only son’s wounds, she nearly cried out yet again in pain and fear. Blood did indeed seem to cover his armor and sword, and there was enough of it to tell some had to be his own.
The viscount tried to smile faintly and offer a mock salute, like he used to do. “Mother.” He managed.
His mother, though over fifty summers old, was still a beautiful creature, even if it was from a son’s perspective. A slender, tall lady, with golden hair and pale, pretty face, she was dressed in summer green and gold, with a bloody cloth still in hand from her work with the wounded. Though many lines ran across his slender features, her dark eyes still usually radiated her quiet contentment. Though hardly at the moment.
“I’m well, mother, well enough.” Andrew offered, though he allowed her to lead him into the opening hall of the Kairok House and sit down on one of the councilor chairs inside. The good mother immediately nearly ran outside, calling for her own healers, and brought them in to examine her son.
The viscount braced himself, but still cried out in pain when they removed his armor. “AGH!” He managed, cuts coming fresh again. His mother winced visibly. He bit his tongue.
“Is all lost, Andrew?” Asked Countess Hytira in a low, quivering tone, as if she were weighing their retreat options like any general.
“Not in the least! Father’s here!” He protested loudly, as if that would alone drive away the hordes. And indeed, both knew that if Count Strejwan was on the walls when the enemy came, it would be a long, hard fight, either way.
“Ach, Andrew…” Biting back a sob, the elderly mother sat down beside her son to help clean his wounds, her own vision blurring. “…You pushed yourself too far.”
“I tried to.” Was all Andrew could offer.

His father came in shortly afterward, as soon as any man of his within ten miles radius around his keep was either getting into the keep, or heading south in a hurry with his family. While the countryside around them prepared to sudden invasion, as fast they could, the elderly royal couple talked late into the night with their son, in that opening hallway. The weeping mother, grim father and weary son nearly fought, as words were past, before at last the count came to a quick decision. His son would go to the Council instead, with Countess Hytira, for her safety in Ilelphosta which was miles and miles away. While the count himself, as was only right and tradition, would remain at his house, command his armies, and eventually die on his walls if he had to. But either way…no matter the outcome, it would be a hard, long, terrible fight.
Especially without allies or reinforcements arriving in time.