Evening, April 10th, Anno Domini 1200The Keep of Falkenstrand
The air in the corridors of Falkenstrand Keep seemed to grow heavier, colder, as Alaric descended from the relative comfort of the solar. The flickering torchlight cast dancing, elongated shadows that writhed upon the uneven stone walls, making the passage feel more akin to the gullet of some slumbering beast than a place of habitation. The sounds were different here too; the distant, muted clatter of cookware from the kitchens, the occasional gruff voice of a guard, the sigh of the wind through unseen cracks in the ancient masonry. It was a stark contrast to the quiet dignity of his mother's presence.
He had no escort save the simple woolen cloak about his shoulders and the burgeoning resolve in his breast. He knew, from the inherited memories, where to find the barracks and the Captain of the Guard, Ser Kaelan. It was a short walk towards the outer bailey, though every step on the uneven flagstones was a reminder of his body's lingering weakness. He ignored it, his focus entirely on the task ahead.
He found Ser Kaelan in a small, cluttered chamber adjacent to the main guardroom near the gatehouse. The room served as both an office and an armory, with a few dented helmets, mismatched spearheads, and old leather jacks hanging from pegs on the wall. A single tallow candle sputtered on a rough-hewn table, casting meager light over a ledger where an elderly man was painstakingly making marks with a piece of charcoal.
Ser Kaelan was older than Alaric had pictured, easily into his sixtieth winter. His frame was stooped, his remaining hair a wispy white fringe around a liver-spotted scalp. Yet, his shoulders, though bowed by age, still held a hint of their former breadth, and his hands, gnarled and arthritic, looked as though they had known the weight of a sword for many decades. He wore a faded, patched gambeson, its once-bright Falkenstrand falcon emblem now barely discernible. When he looked up, his pale blue eyes, watery with age, widened first in surprise, then in a mixture of disbelief and something Alaric recognized as profound relief.
"My… my lord Baron?" Kaelan's voice was a gravelly rasp. He struggled to rise, his joints protesting audibly. "You are… on your feet? Praised be the Saints!"
Alaric raised a hand. "At ease, Ser Kaelan. Save your strength." He stepped further into the small chamber, the scent of old leather, whetstone dust, and stale sweat assailing his nostrils. "I am recovered enough to see to my duties."
Kaelan remained half-risen, his gaze fixed on Alaric, searching. "Forgive me, my lord. It is… a welcome sight. We had all feared… After your noble father…" His voice trailed off, the grief still fresh.
"My father's loss is a heavy blow to us all, Ser Kaelan," Alaric said, his tone even, measured. He noted the genuine sorrow in the old knight's eyes, the loyalty that shone through the weariness. This man was a relic of a past generation, perhaps, but his devotion could be an asset. "But Falkenstrand endures. And it requires its Baron. I am here to understand our current state of defense."
A new light flickered in Kaelan's eyes, a spark of his old martial spirit perhaps, at the mention of duty. "Of course, my lord. Though I fear what you find may be… wanting." He finally straightened, a grimace of pain briefly crossing his face. "Where would you begin?"
"The walls, Captain," Alaric stated. "Then the men, and their arms."
Kaelan nodded slowly, seeming to take in Alaric's directness, the subtle shift from the somewhat callow youth he had known. "As you command, my lord."
The old knight retrieved a sputtering torch from a wall sconce, and together they stepped out into the bailey. Here, the evening chill bit deeper. With it came the raw scent of damp earth, overlaid by a sour, pervasive miasma that Alaric's mind, despite its new medieval context, instantly recoiled from with a modern disgust he had to consciously suppress. The bailey itself was a muddy, uneven expanse. A few chickens pecked desultorily in the gloom.
"The curtain wall is mostly sound, my lord," Kaelan began, his voice stronger now that he was on familiar ground, gesturing with the torch towards the looming stone perimeter. "Two feet thick in most places, three near the gatehouse. Built by your great-grandfather, Baron Otfried. Local stone, good quarry work."
Alaric ran a hand along the cold, damp surface of the nearest wall. It felt solid enough, but his eyes, accustomed to assessing structural integrity from a different lifetime's perspective, noted areas where the mortar was crumbling, where patches of darker, newer stone indicated hurried repairs. He saw no evidence of hoarding, the projecting wooden platforms that would allow defenders to fight more effectively from the wall tops.
"The height?" Alaric asked, scanning the top of the wall, silhouetted against the darkening sky.
"Fifteen feet to the walkway on the eastern side, nearer to eighteen by the gate tower," Kaelan answered. "Sufficient to deter casual raiders, but a determined assault with ladders…" He left the implication unspoken.
Alaric understood. Fifteen feet was not formidable. A determined force, even a small one with basic siege equipment, could overcome it. He noted the narrowness of the wall-walk, barely wide enough for two men to pass.
They made their way to the gatehouse, a squat, blocky structure that was clearly the most heavily fortified part of the keep. A single, iron-banded oak portcullis, currently raised, and heavy wooden doors barred the main entrance. Two guards, looking more like weary farmers than soldiers, leaned on their spears, their eyes widening as Alaric and Kaelan approached. They snapped to a semblance of attention, thumping their spear butts on the muddy ground.
Alaric gave them a curt nod, his expression unreadable. He saw the worn leather of their jerkins, the rust spots on their spearheads, the apprehension in their eyes. Morale, he judged, was low. Fear and uncertainty were likely their constant companions.
"The portcullis mechanism?" he asked Kaelan, his gaze sweeping over the winding gear visible in the upper chamber of the gatehouse.
"It is old, my lord, but functional. Requires four strong men to raise it quickly. The doors are barred from within by two heavy timbers."
Alaric made a mental note: the gate was a critical chokepoint, but its defense depended on the vigilance and readiness of the men.
Their tour continued along the wall-walk. The wind was sharper here, tugging at Alaric's cloak. From this vantage, he could see the huddled village of Falkenau nestled outside the keep's southern wall, its few lights like scattered embers in the gloom. Beyond, the dark expanse of the forest began, a menacing, black sea under the nascent starlight.
"We have twenty men in the permanent garrison, as my lady mother informed me," Alaric said, more a statement than a question.
"Aye, my lord," Kaelan confirmed. "Though 'men' is a generous term for some. Three are old campaigners like myself, more fit for sentry duty than a pitched battle. Ten are… serviceable, with some experience. The rest are young lads, strong enough, but green as spring grass."
Alaric's internal calculation was grim. Effectively, perhaps a dozen truly combat-ready soldiers within the keep. And the thirty levies from the villages? They would be a rabble, useful perhaps for swelling numbers or performing manual labor, but not for holding a wall against determined attackers.
They descended into the small, damp armory. It was as Alaric had expected from Kaelan's office. A sparse collection of weaponry, much of it clearly second-hand or poorly maintained. Swords with nicked blades, axes with loose heads, a few short bows with frayed strings. There were perhaps a dozen shields, their painted falcons chipped and faded. Mail was a rarity; he saw only two or three hauberks, clearly of considerable age, and a handful of mail coifs. Most of the "armor" consisted of padded leather jacks and simple steel caps.
"Our supplies of arrows are low, my lord," Kaelan admitted, his voice heavy with the unspoken shame of a captain unable to properly equip his men. "The fletcher in Falkenau is an old man, his eyesight failing. And good arrowheads are costly."
Alaric picked up a helmet. It was a simple cervelliere, dented on one side. He ran a finger along the edge of a spearhead; it was dull. This was not an army; it was a constabulary, barely equipped to deal with bandits, let alone the forces of a rival lord like Steinthal.
"The training yard," Alaric said, his voice flat.
Kaelan led him to a small, muddy patch of ground behind the barracks, where a few practice pell Nancs, battered posts wrapped in straw, stood sentinel. Even in the dim light, Alaric could see it was little used.
"We drill when we can, my lord," Kaelan said, a defensive edge to his tone. "But with patrols, sentry duty, and the men's other tasks… there is little time."
"Show me," Alaric commanded. "Gather the men who are off duty. I wish to see them handle their weapons."
A flicker of surprise, then something akin to trepidation, crossed Kaelan's face. This was new. The young lord had never taken such an interest before. But he nodded. "It will take a moment, my lord."
While Kaelan went to rouse the men, Alaric stood alone in the center of the pathetic excuse for a training yard. His mind, the one that recalled military doctrines from a thousand years in the future, superimposed images of disciplined soldiers, efficient logistics, and sophisticated weaponry onto this primitive reality. The gulf was immense, almost comical, yet the danger it represented was anything but.
Soon, a dozen men, looking sleepy and dishevelled, were assembled. They shuffled into a ragged line, clutching an assortment of spears, short swords, and axes. Ser Kaelan stood before them, looking deeply uncomfortable.
"A simple drill, men," Kaelan ordered, his voice lacking its usual parade-ground bark. "Show the Lord Baron your formations."
What followed was a painful display of ineptitude. The men struggled to form a cohesive shield line, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Spears were held at inconsistent angles. A few basic commands from Kaelan resulted in more confusion than order.
Alaric watched in silence, his expression unreadable. He wasn't angry; anger was a useless emotion here. A cold certainty settled in Alaric's gut: these were not warriors, but lambs being readied for slaughter. He saw it in the chaotic scramble of their movements, the shoddiness of their gear, and the utter absence of any true martial bearing. Each flaw was a nail in Falkenstrand's coffin.
Kaelan's command to halt the shambolic display echoed unanswered for a moment, before an awkward, heavy quiet settled over the yard. The men shifted their weight, their shoulders slumped, an uncomfortable heat rising on their necks and ears as they studiously inspected their own boots or the ground before them, anywhere but at their new Baron.
Alaric spoke, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable edge of authority that cut through the evening air. "Ser Kaelan, your loyalty to my house is noted and appreciated. Your men… are loyal. That is a foundation."
He paused, letting his words sink in. He then addressed the men directly. "You are the shield of Falkenstrand. As you stand now, that shield is cracked, its wood rotten, its iron rusted." His words were harsh, brutally honest, but delivered without malice, like a physician diagnosing a grave illness.
A few men flinched. Kaelan looked as though he might protest, but Alaric continued.
"This will change. Starting tomorrow, training will be rigorous. Every man will know his place, his weapon, his duty. We will repair what is broken, replace what is useless. Falkenstrand is small, but it will not be weak." He swept his gaze over them, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "Dismissed. Get what rest you can. Dawn will come early."
The men dispersed quickly, muttering amongst themselves, a mixture of fear, resentment, and perhaps a dawning spark of something else – respect, or at least curiosity, for this suddenly transformed Baron.
Alaric turned to Kaelan. "Captain, a word in your office."
Back in the cramped chamber, Alaric faced the old knight. "What I saw tonight was… unacceptable, Kaelan. But the blame does not lie solely with the men, or even with you, given the circumstances and lack of resources from my father's latter days."
Kaelan looked down at his scarred hands. "I have failed you, my lord."
"You have served Falkenstrand for many years," Alaric countered, his tone softening slightly. "Now, you will serve it differently. I need your experience, your knowledge of these men, and your understanding of how things have been done. But the methods must change. My methods."
He outlined a few immediate directives: a stricter sentry rotation, an inventory of every usable piece of equipment, no matter how poor, a census of all men in the Barony capable of bearing arms, and the immediate establishment of a daily, focused training regimen. He spoke of discipline, of basic formation fighting, of archery practice. He even touched upon sanitation within the barracks, a concept that clearly bewildered Kaelan but to which the old knight nodded dumbly.
"These are… significant changes, my lord," Kaelan said at last, looking overwhelmed.
"They are necessary changes for survival, Captain," Alaric stated. "Lord Steinthal will not wait for us to be ready. The bandits will not simply disappear. We forge our own readiness, or we perish."
He saw a flicker of understanding, then a grim resolve, settle on Kaelan's aged face. "I… I will see it done, my lord. To the best of my ability."
"I expect nothing less." Alaric paused. "One more thing. I require a personal guard. Two men. The best you have, for what that means currently. Alert, strong, and above all, discreet. They will attend me at all times when I am outside my personal chambers."
Kaelan nodded. "It shall be arranged, my lord."
Alaric gave a final, curt nod. "Good. Tomorrow, after the morning meal, we will begin implementing these changes. And you will bring me the full inventory and census reports by midday."
He left Kaelan then, the old knight looking both burdened and strangely invigorated. As Alaric walked back through the darkened keep towards his own chambers, the weight of his new reality pressed down on him. The task was monumental, the resources pitiful. Yet, a core of icy determination had solidified within him. He had seen the rot, the weakness. Now, the rebuilding would begin. He would forge Falkenstrand into a weapon, and its people, whether they yet knew it or not, into the components of his will. The night was cold, but the fire of his ambition burned hot and clear.