As the men disembark from the voyage from the military ship, in good order despite the month at sea after two weeks of marching, I smile. It is the 30th day of Wree, a Roreusday, of the God of Death. Lou rides his horse down next to Onyx and stares at me.
“Shall we say hello to the court?” I ask, smiling at him. A large retinue of the court is there, with 4 Royal Guard members, the minimum required for the King. I remove my rank insignia and grandmaster pin from the pouch, as he looks nervously around.
“Why a public reception? This is abnormal…” Lou asks, before Onyx begins to prowl forward, my men in formation behind me, marching forward silently. Well, as silent as 1,800 men, several hundred horses, with armor and gear can be. I stop before King Stephan Seagard, ten paces as required for a soldier, and give him the salute of the Grandmaster. I dismount, drawing both of my blades and offering him the hilts, on one knee and head down. His Majesty walks forward, his guards standing back for this ceremony. He grips both blades and picks them up.
“What is their names?” He demands, staring at me.
“Cry of the Forsaken, for the sound the Orc Boghat made when he died. It is a bastard sword, material unknown. Gift of the End, named after I mercy killed an enemy prisoner, for delivering intelligence against his state. It is an arming sword, material unknown.” I respond as he places the swords back into my hands, nodding.
“And your ranking?” He demands his voice in a calm tone.
“15th of 30th, of the sword,” I respond, sheathing my blades.
“Arise, Captain Isaac Archer, Rank 10 of the Blade, Swordmastery, of the 15th strongest.” The king calls, taping my head. I rise, my head kept low.
“Your Majesty, I present to you the 15th Guard Battalion, reporting as ordered to the Obsidian Throne for an emergency matter,” I state, my head low.
“The matter is grave. My heirs are dead and the final heir is in the 15th Guard. A bastard child.” The king says, as the court gasps, many not knowing the rumors were true. “Yet, with the death of my last trueborn heir, it was decided to recall the final son.”
At this, the men in my unit kneel, confused. I stay standing, as the king signals for me to raise my head.
“Captain Isaac Archer, do you know who this man is?”
“Aye Your Majesty, I do.”
“And who may it be?” The King asks, staring at me.
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“I am forbidden by royal oath to state Your Majesty,” I respond, as he nods, smiling.
“We must head to the Temple of the Pontifex Maximus, for only he can break this oath.” The King declares to the court, as they mumble in shock. He turns, my men, rising behind me, as I follow three steps behind the king. They follow the cavalry in my battalion leading while the court awkwardly follows behind the common soldier. The Royal Guard separates me from the king, as the common folk walk around, confused.
For every quarter mile we march, through the town, my men bang their spears together, a tradition from our time at the fort, to ward away those that died there. Our spears bang telling them, we stand guard. As we near the Church district, more and more commoners begin to follow, keeping their distance from the court and soldiers. The court looks at the uncouth soldiers, who begin to sing a ribald marching song.
As we enter the Church district, the men stop their ribald song, banging their spears with every step of their right foot. The noise drowns out the prayers to the various gods and goddesses save for Ythys, whose Warbrother of the capital exits the grand church to the Warrior Goddess, his ceremonial spear banging in time with ours. We stop before the Pontifex Maximus temple and await the Pontifex Maximus himself.
Pontifex Maximus Jefleather, one of the few half-elves in the city, exits along with his guards. Instead of blades, they each carry large clubs, for no blood may be split in the view of the typically elderly Pontifex Maximus.
“Your Majesty, may I ask why you have brought the court to me today?” He asks the king, giving a slight nod of his head. Not as a sign of disrespect, but the opposite, for he does not need to bow before the King, as the greatest priest.
“A royal oath was taken before you, some 15 years ago. I require it to be set aside.” He responds, gesturing to me. “This oath contains the identity of the soon-to-be heir to the kingdom.”
“And who is the man who holds the oath?” The elderly half-elf asks, smiling at me.
“Captain Isaac Archer, Rank 10 Master of the Blade, Swordmastery, 15th out of 30th, commander of the 15th Guard Battalion, if it pleases you, Your Grace,” I respond, giving him a formal bow.
“Rise my child, and bind your blades in peace.” He orders, and I tie two peace knots over my swords, as he looks at the King. “I must ask, under what conditions may the oath be set aside?”
“Should the identity be required for the security and safety of the kingdom.” The king responds, standing straight.
“And is it?”
“I am the last of my dynasty, as you know. It is.” He responds, visually deflating a bit at the words.
The half-elf simply nods, and signals for both of us to kneel before us. He removes both the King’s crown and my helmet and places a hand on each of our heads.
“May the great Goddess Inlir, the Goddess of Loyalty, look upon these two warriors of the realm and decide if the oath is to be broken!” He declares, before his voice changes. Instead of an elderly male voice, it turns into a human woman’s.
“As the Goddess Inlir, I hereby declare these two warriors have fulfilled the terms of the oath to the best of their abilities. The Royal Oath is hereby over.” She declares as magic from her presence pulls back the magic of the oath, my hair and eye returning to their original color.
Obsidian. The sign of royalty.
The crowd behind me gasps, save my soldiers, as the Pontifex Maximus returns and withdraws his hands.
“Arise Your Majesty, and arise Captain Isaac Seagard, Royal Bastard, and Heir to the Throne!”
