Scarburg Meadhall

[littlemanpoet]

"Lord Faramund!" Stedford came walking hurriedly.

"Yes, Stedford," said Faramund with forced patience, "What is so urgent?"

"A small army of Eorlingas has arrived!"

Faramund sat upright. "How small?"

"Mayhap three dozen."

"Can you tell me any more than a number, Stedford?"

"They bear the livery of Lord Athanar."

"Ah. The new Eorl of the newly fashioned Middle Emnet is out for the day," he said disparagingly. "Hmm..." This was news. What were they doing here? Were they hostile? "Stedford," he asked, his tone more urgent now, "how did they seem? Do they seem on patrol, or do they mean ... worse?"

"They have set themselves in ordered ranks, lord, and they seem to be waiting."

Faramund put his hand to his unshaven chin. "Have they said aught?"

"Nay, lord."

"Gather the men. I want an armed guard at my back when I go out to meet them. Do it now! Get them here double quick!"

Yes, lord!"

Faramund paced while he waited. Soon his men started running into the room from the neighboring armory. Stedford called for ordered columns. Sometimes Faramund disdained Stedford. The man was the son of his father's best loved steward, who had since been laid in the ground. Stedford was as responsible and dutiful as could be hoped, and therefore useless for plotting strategem. He had stopped asking him for counsel long since, having grown used to the typical response, "I would do the right thing, lord." It irritated him. At least the man was competent. Soon the two dozen men at arms were rounded up and in columns.

"Stedford, march the men out ahead of me and order them up in rows of six, four deep. Make a space between three to right and left. I'll walk up the middle, and you will announce me. I want to make an impression on this new Eorl of ours."

"Aye, lord."