Low Fantasy Strategic Dialogue [1738 words]

Just finished this dialogue, I'd really appreciate some feedback and critique. I'm worried it's overwhelming to readers because there are a lot of characters, locations and institutions mentioned. Please let me know if it's overbearing, but I tried to trickle information in as best as I could.

Context: Takes place in the continent/kingdom of Minus, where a civil war has been going on for four years. Prince Eros Digby, commanding the royal army of 20,000 men, has finally broken through rebel borders and is besieging the city of Honortown. He is discussing warplans and current events with his subordinate officers. This excerpt is told from the perspective of Sir Mel, a high-ranking knight in the royal army.

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Mel made his way through the confines of the central camp, to the very middle of the site. The tents of the prince and the high command were walled in by a make-shift palisade of sharpened stakes, and at every entrance stood a group of guardsmen, each miserable in the harsh weather. They knew Mel’s face, allowing him entry to the grounds without question. The knight then walked to the command tent, where the prince and his other officers awaited.

The shelter was more than twice the size of his own, which was already large by common standards. The interior held multiple tables, littered with papers and maps detailing the royal warplans. Torchlight flickered about the tent’s canvas, causing shadows to dance with every twist and turn of the flames. At the tables were seated at least a dozen lords and captains of the host. Mel’s eyes were immediately brought to his prince, standing at the head of it all.

Prince Eros was no more than twenty, yet stood taller than most of the men present, save Sir Mel. His royal armor had been replaced by a leather doublet, decorated with a threaded, golden stallion at its center.

“Your grace,” said Sir Mel, kneeling, “I apologize for my lateness.”

“All is well friend,” the prince smiled, “I assume you’ve succeeded in damming the hill, as I am not knee-deep in water.”

“Yes, my prince, the men did well.”

“You and your brothers’ service is greatly appreciated, you may take your seat, Sir Mel.”

Mel sat towards the end of the table, looking around at his fellow officers. Beside Prince Eros was his elderly grandfather, Lord Rhys Bush, Queen Erena’s father. The patriarch of House Bush was one of the wealthiest men in the entire Kingdom, supplying a fifth of the royal army. Sir Mel also noted the attendance of Lord Dyrla Baemore and Sir Orthell, son and heir of the great Lord Orwen Greenheart, who remained absent. House Greenheart was the greatest of the Cherrish families, providing the backbone of the prince’s army. Other nobles and lords sat as well, silently awaiting their prince.

“My lords, we may now begin,” announced Eros, “We’ve been camped here for a month now, are there any new reports on the rebel’s supply stocks?”

“Your grace,” said Lord Dyrla, “The report hasn’t changed, they hold enough grain and livestock to last them through the winter at the very least. Unfortunately, the harvest was not only bountiful for us.”

“Their numbers remain the same, Lord Baemore?”

“Yes, three thousand men-at-arms. That doesn’t include the peasantry they’ve doubtlessly armed.”

Lord Rhys interjected, “So thirty-five hundred conservatively, grandson.”

“My prince,” said Sir Mel, “It would be prudent to remember that within the walls is a number of knights from the Order of Hedland. Those commoners are being trained and drilled daily, their force is not to be underestimated.”

“Thank you, Sir Mel. I trust when the gates fall the Knights of the Mare will bring those traitors to a swift end.”

Sir Mel nodded, “Their treason shall be rectified by the sword.”

“Lord Heron, Lord Dorman, and Lord Borbenhall are all within the walls as well,” said Sir Orthell, “Should we take the city, the command of the rebellion will be annihilated. Victory would be all but assured, the remaining northern houses would be left with no choice but to submit.”

“Then we will take it. However, more losses such as those we suffered yesterday cannot be allowed to happen. For now, we will wait,” declared Prince Eros, “My father should arrive by the end of Ilas with my sister and his personal guard in tow, thank Merrell for her health. In the meantime, Sir Orthell, have your men build another two towers, and how goes the construction of the ram?”

“It fairs well, my prince, the surrounding villages that we’ve scoured have yielded enough metal for a strong plating. Enough so that even the arrows of Bren could not pierce.”

“Careful your haughtiness is not misplaced, Cherrishman,” snarled Lord Heath Marsh, a famously wealthy southern noble, fat enough to dwarf two grown men.

“Are you questioning my capability, Fat Heath?”

“Am I wrong to do so? Was it not your tower that fell in the frey yesterday? How many of our men fell with it?” said Heath, gesturing to the other lords at the table.

“Lord Heath,” began Eros, “The destruction of the siege tower was a casualty of war, as were the men within. I will not have dissent within this camp, especially the kind spurred by your unnecessary feuds.”

“Unnecessary, your grace? Since your family took the throne the Cherrish have sucked our lands dry, taxed my people’s every move. As my fellow Eshwyn-kin, I expected your support.”

“You dare speak to your prince in such a manner?” barked Lord Bush, standing to defend his grandson, “Do not forget yourself, Heath, do not forget how your line was spared by his forefather. Your actions have stained our people’s reputation since you slithered from the womb.”

“Grandsire,” gently said Prince Eros, helping the old lord back into his seat, “This bickering is trivial and only serves to weaken us all. Lord Marsh, you will not speak out of turn again.”

The room was filled with a tense, awkward silence as Lord Marsh quietly seethed in his chair. It was often that Sir Mel observed the same oppressive ideas within his knightly order, as it was one composed strictly of Eshwyn knights. Some of his brothers, for petty reasons, despised the southern Cherrish-folk. Whether it was out of jealousy, historical grievances, or an ethnic hubris, Mel knew not, but the hatred was very real.

“Sir Jeston, are there any reports from your scouts?” asked the prince, breaking the silence.

Sir Jeston Honey stood, wearing a leather doublet, bearing the yellow-black stripes of his House. He left his seat and made his way towards the center of the table, a rolled parchment in one hand and a cup of red wine in the other. He made room on the table and unrolled the parchment, revealing a map of the surrounding area.

“Your grace, the Dorman force still remains to the north, seven-thousand strong,” the young noble pointed to a lake on the map for all to see.

“Still no movement?” asked Lord Dyrla.

“None, they remain in their camp at Lake Dorman. We have no reason to believe that they will attempt to reinforce Honortown, even to save their traitor-lord,” Sir Jeston cleared his throat, “However there is another issue to the east,” Jeston slid his finger across their position, to the side of the map.

“Tell us, boy,” said Lord Bush.

“The Borgostic Order, they still haven’t moved from their fortresses in Nyrmond. They remain at their full strength of three thousand, also bolstered by the ranks of House Furman.”

“Fret not, your grace,” said Mel, “Grand Elder Calhoun is a known craven. He knows the war is over, and wouldn’t dare move his knights.”

“Still, if a force of three thousand heavy horse were to regroup with the Dorman host, an army of ten thousand poses a grave threat to our progress,” said Lord Dyrla.

Prince Eros frowned, “Why was I not told of this earlier, Sir Jeston?”

“The report came to me this morning, it was thought that their order was scattered across Hedland.”

“Instead they cower behind their walls? This is a serious oversight, one that must be accounted for. The Borgostic knights cannot be allowed to regroup with the other rebels, their stronghold is the castle of Uthore’s Rest, yes?” the lords nodded to their prince, “Then how many men can we spare?”

“Send me, your grace,” said Sir Orthell, “My father sent me from Greenhill with six thousand men, I’ll take a full regiment and burn them from their nests, the rest can remain here with you.”

“That seems drastic, is it truly worth dividing our force by such a margin?”

Sir Mel spoke, “I believe so, my Prince. The Borgosts are traitors, but their knights are second to none. Calhoun may not move his men, but removing the possibility would help us all sleep better.”

“I don’t think it’s worth it,” said Lord Marsh, “Keep our forces together, as a hammer. We have momentum, the kind to finally end this war, why sully that?”

Eros nodded silently, allowing the information to settle in his mind as he stared over the map. The shadows from the torches flickered and danced across his face as he sat in thought. His blue eyes mulled over the positions of the figures and the ink-drawn borders upon the parchment before him.

“Good points all, and you’re far from wrong Lord Marsh. However, leaving this to chance jeopardizes our progress irresponsibly, and we have men to spare. We would be fools to leave such a force unchecked,” the prince looked to Sir Orthell, “Leave some men here to finish the building of the siege engines, at least a third of your father’s force. Take the remaining four thousand and burn the Borgostic Order from their woods. Pillage House Furman’s lands, let them feel the king’s wrath.”

“It will be done, your grace. We’ll set out at dawn.”

“Sir Jeston, your family knows the forests of Nyrmond better then any of us southerners, is there another member of your House in this camp?”

“Yes, your grace, my younger brother Hallis. He’s with our men tonight.”

“Tell Sir Hallis that he is to accompany Sir Orthell, and that he will be the eyes, ears and whatever else is needed for this expedition.”

Sir Jeston nodded, gently bowing in compliance after receiving his orders. Mel was not a superstitious man by any means, but the forests of Nyrmond had never boded well for outsiders. The Nyrish people were hardy and wild, a match for the land that they called home. Their lords, House Furman, were of the same ilk, traditionalist to a fault. Southern mothers would even spin tales of the barbarity and witchcraft practiced within their borders to frighten their children.

“Before we adjourn my lords, when gracious Ferni brings my family back together, and the King and my sister have arrived, we’ll launch our next assault on the walls. Rest your men, burn incense to Kell and pray for the storm to ease. With good fortune, we will have this city by Novmund. You’re dismissed.”