id: 551
name: The Knight will Stand Tall
author: Maus
date: 5th October 2021
text len: 14082
views: 66

"KNIGHTS OF THE KING'S GUARD; LOAD YOUR HORSES."

The words of the Governor-Major reverberated against the brick courtyard, loud and coarse, to the ears of the eager and the brave. A number just shy of a third of a thousand new officers were lining the grounds, horses to their sides, awaiting their final words from their head-instructor (as to whom they referred to as 'The Governor'). The words signaled the end of their exercised and focused tutoring in the art of tactical combat, and their leap into postings around the country. 

Every officer was given a list of preference as to where they would want to be posted, and which units they wanted to serve. Social status is the largest decider, and those who have more connections could see their preferred placings be held more secure, though there would be many reasons as to the choice of a posting. Some wanted the adventure of the high plains; others the security of more urban postings; whilst the few that had the rare notion of actually wanting to serve the country would place themselves in border areas. All officers would be in charge of at least twelve other riding men, of which were expected to serve the officers of the Guard without question and fight with tenacity unmatched.

The officers loaded each item of theirs as commanded by The Governor with practiced movement. First, it was the storage satchel, which saddled on both sides of the horse. This was filled with the personal belongings of each officer, and as such, had different amounts of fullness to their size. The second item, which was commanded with a hearty cough, was the ammunition pack. Brimming with paper-wrapped powder and shot, it had room for at most seventy two shots, but this was an amount only given to those on long patrols. The next item to be ordered were the cooking items, all stored in a water-proof sack. The tin rattle of hundreds of men hurling the sack over the back of the horse made a din like a rifle going off in the middle of the courtyard. The second-to last item was for all men to sheathe their swords to the horse.

"SABER'S; SHOW!" the Governor boomed. All men pulled their sabers two-thirds away from the sheathes. "SABER'S; HIGH!" Every officer twirled their sabers from the sheathe to vertical above them, the sun glinting off each blade held in perfect parade. All of this fanfare was not without reason, for in every building lining the courtyard were watching eyes; the esteemed families of those in the yard were watching every turn of a choregraphed movement of men, similar to the opera's and theatricals of entertainment, except with knowledge that those on the brick-laid stage would serve the country with their blood. The spectators watched with excitement as The Governor cried his next order. "SABERS; CONSIGN!" Every saber was deftly handled from the sky and, with a movement missed in a blink, into the sheathes laid on each horse. This time, there wasn't a clink of a single fallen saber.

Lastly was the rifle. Not even half a decade has passed since it was seen as essential for every cavalryman to have a rifle. What were once the tools of the coward of even the lowest cavalryman, were now given standard to even the King's Guard. As can be understood, the procedure for loading the rifle onto the holster was not given much prominence in the parade, and was issued with a single order. After loading the rifle onto the horse, every officer stood to attention for their final order from The Governor .

"KNIGHTS OF THE KING'S GUARD; MOUNT. YOUR. HORSES."

The bugle called the painfully nostalgic sound of the lights-out call, signaling the end of their tenure of study, practice and training. Many men promised to write to one another, once they got their postings. Many a letter would detail the women they would meet and battles hard-fought, but those were to lay in a future not yet attained. As the band began to play, each officer rode out the gate side-by-side with another, with staff handing each officer his posting as they left. They would marshal themselves into their designated areas outside of town to form part of a logistical train to each posting, with each letter being specifically signed so as to avoid officers going elsewhere, but a few words of coin could sway those in charge of checking each letter. If the destination were so remote, they would split from each train and make their way to their posting. The path of the officers could be laid like the roots of a tree, with all paths culminating in the city.

Samuel rode toward the magistrate, navigating the busy city streets, eating a rod of bread that was given to him by a local baker he knew. He chewed slowly, mingling thoughts of the letter in his jacket leaving his heart to gnaw at him. Anxious to see his family before he left, but worried of his father's decision to not allow him to open the letter unless it were done in front of him, he could do nothing of the fear that brewed. The letter held either an elated joy to his father's face, or a shaming appearance of which he would be forced to think of for time unknown. It all rested on the letter which he could not open. He brushed his coat, finishing the bread, and thought back to the choices he made for postings. Perhaps he would get the border town, even with his average grading, that his father saw him fit for posting. Samuel would have no doubt, however, that this was merely a point of pride for him. No matter what he was told, he knew it was because his father was made an invalid for service in the Guard, and that his own service would be a surrogate of his fathers.

"Where ya posted Sam?" the friendly voice called. Samuel turned around to see the equally friendly face of Hugo d 'Mont. His slightly larger frame sat squarely on his mount, with a smile squealing to the edges of his mouth. Dark brown hair curled in combed fashion from a peak to the sides, and his red cheeks lent well to his image of a happy drinker. Samuel looked to the letter in his hands and averted his gaze slightly. "I haven't opened it yet." he replied feebly. Hugo lined himself to the side of Samuel and gave him his letter. Samuel pulled the thick paper from its envelope and smiled for his friend. Hugo chuckled a bit before he took it back. "Amavia. It's a lucky letter I got; I get a nice comfy managerial hub. Ya know what that means right? I won't be dragged into dragooning, or carabining, which is basically baby sitting. Instead, I get to ride in with my uniform on, and ride out with women in tow! Sometimes without my uniform on!" Hugo bellowed in laughter at his success over the odds, along with his rubbish joke. Samuel couldn't help but feel pleased to hear the infectious laughter. It took the mind off his own letter and gave him a mind free to settle into aimless chatter with his friend.

"Are you both a King's Guard?" A small child had wandered onto their side, and he queried with an innocence attained only through age.
"We sure are kid!" Hugo said, bending down and scuffling his hair. "If you join the cavalry when you're older, you might even serve in my command!" The both of them laughed as a mother appeared and profusely apologized, pushing the child away and into the crowd of people going about their day.
"You know," Samuel remarked, "kids like that won't join the cavalry. They'd be a foot slogger."
"What do you mean?"
"You can tell by the way he walks. He isn't fit to be a cavalryman."
"Elaborate."
"It's the gait with which he his legs along."
"What in the blue blasting does that mean?"
"Well it means..." Samuel trailed his sentence, unable to arrest the turning of neck as a blonde haired woman walked by. "...it means, Hugo, we could talk about that passing girl."

Their long conversation quickly ended when they reached the gate of the third wall. Hugo steadied himself on his mount, eyes ahead with mouth to the side. "Where are you headed?"
"To the magistrate to see Father." he responded. Hugo turned head and gave him a quizzical look in return. "He wants for me to open the letter in front of him."
"Truly?"
Yeah," he replied, wanting off the subject. "but what about you?"
"Well I have to go see my folks in Yarin district, but if you meet me at, say, the road that leads to Ulsa, you know the one?" 
Samuel nodded his head.
"If we meet there we can exchange details for writing. Maybe when we take leave..." Hugo could barely contain the lengthening grin. "...we can see who's the better shot once and for all?"
Samuel laughed at what was the changing face of Hugo. "I've shown you up at least three times now! Accept that I am better!"
"That last time was because I was under the influence of the absolutely ghastly stew they made that made half the school sick!"
Samuel smiled in reaction to his friends flimsy defense. "I'll let you go now; see you later Hugo." Hugo raised his cap before riding off, leaving the diverging Samuel to tend to his family matters. "Make sure to meet at the Ulsa road!" he shouted as a parting word. Samuel watched him leave, his mind occupied by the creeping thoughts of the letter once again.

It was a short ride from the third wall to the magistrate, passing through the largest commercial district. The stores which lined the streets sold everything to interest the modern man. Watches, fine tools, shoes, coats, ointments, books and more, all along the flagstone road. Whilst some were stores that sold specific items or groups of items, others provided service. Repair, tailoring, tutoring, healthcare; even services that did your taxes. All along the flagstone road. Samuel could find nothing among the signs and names to avert his mind, no matter where he looked. Not even the well laid stones along the flagstone road could stir his mind to resist the letter's occupation. He rode with ever increasing unease to Garden Park, from which beyond were the great steps of the magistrate. His father would be inside, probably deciding some petty dispute some way or another. He delivered his horse to the waitman, slipping him some loose coins before setting up the white steps into the grand building itself. Samuel didn't come here often; the smell of constant smoking mixed with the many chemicals with which the officials laced themselves with to make themselves bearable to one another created a vile tonic with which he were to only loathe. The only break from the smell was the morning, when it had been refreshed by the cool of the night. Unfortunately, it was a heat-ridden day, and the sweat of those around forced him to breathe seldom more than usual.

"Samuel! My boy! You look astounding!"
He looked left; it was Mr. Dulling, his Father's assistant. "Ah, Mr. Dulling!"
"Remember the title, boy!" he quipped, finger wagging in his comical sense. He were a well-built man, sturdy in stance, but large enough to make Hugo look like a lean man of strength. Really, if you were being honest, you would best describe him as a vaguely man-shaped barrel. He made no attempt to hide his balding, thin wisps of hair flanking on either side of his ball of a head. His eyes were small and set in deep, his brow usually casting it's own distinct shadow. For all of this, he gave only the most passing thought to his cleanliness, mistaking for the relative of a used rag was understandable. Despite his looks, and those looks alone should give the truth to the other facets of the man, he fostered a quickness of wit and sharpness of mind with which his appearance gave lie too. He was, after all, the head prosecutor's assistant, a position not easily attained through simple connections.

"So," Dulling lead, pouring a glass of light liquor, "I suppose you are here to see your Father."
"Quite right Orms Dulling."
"Oh drop the title, it was only a joke my boy. And call me Rodaecker, no need for formalities." He slipped him a glass, and placed his own glass on a small, fine table between the two of them. "I do believe your father will be quite happy with your success. You know, I was always rooting for you. Not a moment did I think; 'My Lord, he won't make it!' No! Not once!" He took a small sip from the drink before settling it neatly back on the table. "So, where are you posted?"
Samuel felt quite comfortable with this side of Rodaecker. He only assumed this less formal treatment was because of him achieving the position of a King's Guard, as a sort of celebratory moment. "Well, I haven't actually opened the letter yet."
Rodaecker took in an exaggerated gasp of air. "My Lord! I couldn't walk on my own two feet not knowing where I were posted after all of that studying and training!"
"I've barely managed myself. My hearts been floundering the whole ride here."
"Well why don't you open the damned thing!? My own heart can hardly beat another waiting!"
"Well that's the thing, Mr. Dulling, my Father doesn't want me to open it unless I do it in front of hi-"

As if on queue, his father walked into the room. Novalis Veigh-Gallagher, Head Prosecutor for the Third and Fourth districts of Orlouisian. An imposing figure of six-foot and four inches. Some had the book thrown at them by him, some only got light injuries. Standing over Rodaecker, he towered over his short plump body wrapped in attire that was primed to burst and yet ill-fitting at the same time. Veigh, on the other hand, wore a deep sea-blue Lyons-velvet coat with tails, trimmed black, with a tucked, fitting white blouse. Careful embroidery decorated both items, and a large ash leather belt held the black leggings to the waist. His hat lay to his side, resting in white-gloved hands. The short, straw-blonde hair that Samuel inherited was slowly pulling to grey, but a specialist service knew how to push back, and so did those who managed the teeth. What couldn't be fixed was his knee; an obvious tell-all that he would never ride, and would greatly inhibit movement if it weren't for the dense, lacquered-wood cane he used to keep himself going. He stood behind Rodaecker, who pained to crane his neck to see him. "Why, we were just talking about you Mr. Veigh-Gallagher."