Beyond the walls, at the start of the tiny birch forest, the great mass of Dunvarrian slowed, then came to a stop. Revealed by the high midday sun, each Dunvarrian no longer looked like a massive shadow coming out of the forest. Instead, the shadow was replaced by a horde of killers, each bearing weapons, eager to wet themselves on the blood of Baychester's defenders. Many wore warpaint on their faces, a tradition dating back before they were united.
A lone rider galloped forward until he was mere paces from the Western gate, the only gate to the city besides the southern one.
Being so close to the walls as he was, all it would take was a quick arrow to fell the man, but no arrow came; the man remained upon his horse. If the danger he was in affected the man, he did not show it. Was he Stupid or Brave? Edwin couldn't tell.
"John!" the man yelled as his horse took him up and down the length of the Wall.
Edwin could see him much better now; the rider was the regal person he had laid eyes upon.
Lying comfortably on the temples of the man's head was a golden crown of the most magnificent construction. Five small sword-shaped emblems jutted out from the crown. Embedded in the center of each sword, where the hilt meets the blade, was a gem of shiny, glass-like blue, a diamond. No other gems or details adorned the crown; it was simple yet elegant. It was a statement: "Ye who wears me wield the power of an entire people."
Alexander, for whom else could it be? He wore no helm, no protection for his face or neck, leaving his thick locks of curly dark red hair free to flow down to his shoulders. Red hair was common amongst the people of Dunvarra and the tribes of the Emerald Isle to the far west. This hair was unique, not the bright red of his people, but dark enough to mark him out as different, unique.
Unlike his head, his body was armored.
From collarbone to feet, he was wrapped in a polished suit of plate armor. Far from the usually mass-produced poor man's steel of the middle class or lower, this suit was pure steel, undiluted with other alloys. Similar to the crown, Alexander had the suit polished so well that it shone like a blinding light, a display to say, "here I am, your king." Beneath the steel, a second layer of protection, a shirt of chainmail, showed through the weak points of plate armor, such as the king's armpits. No doubt, a third layer of padded gambeson to protect against blunt weapons completed the king's panoply. Decorating the suit of armor was a long covering of fabric. The coat of arms was colored red and green: red on the left of the armor, green to the right. From his shoulders, the decorations continued down until they wrapped around his body from waist to halfway down his legs like a skirt.
No less menacing and regal was the great destrier beneath Alexander. A Warhorse was a powerful beast; without it, a knight was an up-armored, overpaid infantryman; with it, a Knight was a tank without measure. From tail to muzzle, interlocking plates cover the top half of the horse; a long dress of mail armor dropped down low to the horse's leg joints. Like its rider, the horse wore a decorative coat-of-arms displaying the colors of the Buchan dynasty.
"John!" Alexander yelled again, "John Talbot!"
Curious eyes drifted to the duke, soldiers wondering whether to shoot him.
"John Talbot!" Alexander continued yelling as he trotted up and down the wall.
A longbowman approached the duke, his bow at the ready, "I could hit him easy like," he stated, "Mi lord," he quickly added, remembering who he was speaking to.
Edwin could tell the archer was lowborn from the way he spoke, probably a serf working the docks or a laborer.
John thought for a moment, considering what to do, "No," he said decidedly, "He is a king, it would shame my reputation to kill like so, he is unarmed."
Edwin hadn't noticed the king missing a weapon. He leaned back over the crenellation in the wall. Sure enough, there was no weapon on Alexander's person, not even a dagger.
The longbowman returned to his position at the wall beside his compatriots.
"John of Blychester, show yourself!" Alexader yelled once more; it seemed to Edwin that the king was willing to shout for as long as needed.
"I should have you shot!" John threatened, finally answering the king's calls.
With a trot, Alexander moved his horse until he was right below where John was. The king was completely at ease; his gloved hands folded over one another, lightly holding the reins. "There you are, I was beginning to think you were avoiding me." He joked, a bright smile on his face.
John didn't find Alexander humorous: "Have you come to give yourself over as a hostage?"
"Me? Give myself over?" Alexander laughed, "I have thirty thousand men with me. Surrender the city, and I'll allow your garrison to leave with their arms."
Thirty thousand men, both John and Edwin felt shocked at the number; it had to be an exaggeration.
When John did not respond, Alexander continued, "I offer a parley at dusk, in the middle of the land between my men and your castle. You bring five, I bring five, we will discuss terms."
"Agreed." John accepted.
Alexander clapped his hands together in delight, "Perfect, I shall leave you to it then."
An air of anticipation filled the wall as Alexander slowly returned to his assembled army. From their view on the walls, the great host of clans looked no more than ten thousand strong, but it was impossible to tell how many remained hidden in the birch forest or nestled in the stony hills to the left of the forest.
As dusk approached, John's selected group gathered at the western gate.
Edwin watched silently as they came together. Finchley, always punctual, had arrived head of time, mounted on his own warhorse. Julian came next, as head scribe. John valued his wisdom; he refused to wear even a leather tunic for protection. Two knights, one unusually large, the other comically small, armored in suits of plate, showing signs of much battle experience, came last atop their own mounts; they were two of the three brothers who visited Sonder with the duke. The large Rockwell on a small horse and the small Rockwell on a large horse. They wore the colors of the Rockwell's. Together, they made up the duke's primary defense in the unlikely event that the talks broke down into violence.
Four, Edwin counted, one was missing; John had been told to bring no more than five.
Oliver had begged to be one of the ones to come along, but John had refused. "Your father was slain by the Dunvarrians only hours ago. I cannot risk you letting your need for vengeance get the better of you." He had said to Oliver.
Oliver, for his part, was adamant he would not let that be the case; he seemed to be taking the loss of his father well.
However, John didn't budge; the parley was too important to allow even the slightest altercation.
John came when everyone was ready. He was armored in his own suit of plate armor, and at his waist was a one-handed steel battle axe. As page to the duke, it had been Edwin's job to put the armor on him. Normally, that would be left for a lord's or a knight's squire to do, but there were no squires; John's last squire had been knighted five years ago.
Behind John, a teenage stable hand pulled a pony by its reins. The pony was not a warhorse; it had potential as a workhorse or pack animal, but without the muscle of the other horses around it, it was left without armor.
"Edwin, get on the pony." John commanded, "You're my fifth."
Shocked at the command, Edwin hesitated for a moment. "Me?" he asked, unsure.
"Yes," John confirmed
With aid from the stable hand, Edwin jumped onto the back of the pony. He had some experience on a horse, more so now that he was an official page.
Edwin brought the pony forward until he was at the back of the group, next to Julian.
John gestured to a guard above him, looking through a window in the wall of the gatehouse. Slowly, creaking from the weight, the portcullis rose into the roof above. Slowly, the group made its way forward. Alexander was already ahead of them, patiently sitting on a stool brought out from their camp, being raised in the far distance.
Glaring at the group, behind Alexander and his camp, was the red setting sun, menacingly watching as the two leaders drew closer; soon, the fate of Blychester would be determined.