The Grey Ones

RICHMOND

The Duke of Westbridge was a pompous man, Richmond knew as much. He had very little northern pride; he adored those ridiculous Illyrians and their perversion for trinkets and gold. Seeing the short and stout man in golden armour atop a white stallion was gagging. The hilt of his rapier was gold as well, and was probably worth more than fifty white stallions.

Where Lord Cornwall got his wealth had always been a mystery—how he was able to pay for an army of well-trained Illyrian soldiers was beyond most people. But there he was, strutting in front of his hired men who were wearing his Drawbridge sigil, on a horse he could never mount by himself.

“Proud men of Edred!” he shouted. “Soon, we have reached the end of our march, and we shall prove our strength and resolve to those who wish to destroy us!” Despite a deafening silence from the troops, the Duke continued. “We march to defend our future, not only by rescuing the fair maiden stolen from her bed by the foul demons, but also by standing up for what we believe in!”

Some of the men nodded, but the morale was low.

“We believe in the Builder,” he continued, “in his guidance and justice, and we believe that we have the strength and the vigilance to—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Richmond spat and spurred on his horse to intersect Cornwall and turned to the men. “Those grey bastards will bleed, just like any other animal. And that is exactly what they are: animals! So let’s go for a hunt, and afterwards, you can drink as much wine and fuck as many whores as you want. So, what do you say? Let’s kill some fucking beasts!”

Finally, the men responded. A cheer was carried all through the ranks, and Richmond glared at Cornwall. The stout man seemed utterly perplexed.

Richmond hissed, “They’re fucking sell-swords, Cornwall. Not Holy Warriors. Know your men. Builder’s balls…” With a snarl, he urged his horse forwards. He wanted to go home, get this over and done with, and return to normal.