Fiction #4 - Lord Niccolo Florenti

"...and in those dark days, loyalties shall change hands like coin..."

The enemy army stretched in every direction, as far as the eye could see.
Newly crowned High King of Camlyn, Cyrus Avallon the First, appeared as though his crown would not rest upon his head long enough to lose any of its shine. Although all of the former kings and barons that had once divided this vast land stood behind him, it had been a long and bloody battle to bring them together and many men had died on all sides. The combined forces numbered just short of one hundred thousand men - preparing to face what Lord Marshal Tennyson estimated at nearly six times that many. Many of the nobles did not trust one another and, despite the dire need, the King suspected that some of the barons had not brought all of their men as he had commanded, which may in the end, be for the best. Even had the barons brought every man they had, they might not have had enough to defeat this foe.

"My Liege, I fear that we must retreat from the field. Against such overwhelming odds, we cannot hope to face them in the open. With brilliant strategy, we may be able to cobble together what the history books would declare a victory - but there would not be enough men left standing afterward to hold off ten angry farmers with pitchforks. From the walls of the castle we may stand a chance, but not here."

"And what of the outer lands - the forests, the mines, and the farms, Lord Tennyson? How long shall our new Kingdom last without food? How shall we survive the winter with no wood for our fires? I fear it may be a choice between death on the field and death to starvation. I shall trust the hand of the Creator and his ability to lead us to victory even against such odds as these before I shall leave my people to scrounge amongst their own dead for food in a siege we have no hope of breaking. Reverend Wilhelm, make sure the men are ready to see their maker. We go to battle!"

In the tent of the High King, his squire was putting on the armor Cyrus had made with his own hand; an armor almost as legendary as the sword that hung at its side. Cyrus looked down at his handicraft and wished, once more, that his life had been one simply of making such things and not of using them.

"Creator, let this sword and this armor run with rivers of the blood of those who would stand against Your appointed rule." Nevertheless, Cyrus could not help but imagine his own blood running down the metal that had never before been pierced or dented. For it was certain - this would be the last time he wore it.

From the entrance to his pavilion, the nervous voice of a page announced a visitor. The King's first impulse was to chasten the young man for interrupting his preparations, but on a whim he thought better of it and called out that he would meet with this one last supplicant before he died. He did not want his last act as king to be turning away a subject in need.
The subject in question was a traveling merchant. A man of slightly smaller than average height and build. He showed the darker skin tone common among the people of the western coast lands. His hair was dark and oiled, as was his fine mustache which appeared to have just grown recently in just the last few months. The merchant bowed low as the page introduced him as Niccolo Florenti.

"My lord. Forgive me for disturbing you, but I cannot help but notice that you appear to have a problem. I could not count myself a loyal subject or a Creator-fearing man were I to see an opportunity to lend aid to my kingdom and let it pass by. As a merchant, I deem counting as one of my strong suits and I do not think that I need to be a man of military training to know that six to one is poor odds. Indeed, were I a gambling man, which I am not, the money would be more safely bet on the other side. I can see by your expression that you find it hard to believe that a mere merchant may be able to assist in a situation like this one. Do not bother to deny it, were I in your place, I would feel the same. I do not ask that you take me on faith. I have, for you, a proposition: I shall deal with this horde of invading barbarians and not a single drop of Camlyn's blood shall be shed upon the field today. All that I require of you is a horse, a suit of armor, a squire, and a grant of lands and title should I succeed. Should I fail, we shall likely all die, so you see… you have nothing to lose either way."

It was a deal, the King found, he could not refuse.

Cyrus sat atop his war horse with his army assembled behind him for battle and watched as the strange young merchant rode forward under a banner of truce and met with the leaders of the amassed barbarians, which appeared to be as many as fifteen different tribal chieftains. Whatever it was that the smooth tongued salesman said, it was met with a mixture of laughter and raised shouts of anger. The little horde of chieftains turned back to the much bigger horde of warriors and began to whip them into a frenzy for battle. While, oddly, Niccolo Florenti turned and trotted back to the king with a smile on his face.

"Alas, they have refused my terms of surrender. I fear that there will be a fight after all. Array your men for battle, my king, but do not attack. It is not your men that shall do the fighting or the dying today."

For a brief instant, Cyrus Avallon caught a glimpse of the true steel that was beneath the care-free peddler's veneer of Niccolo Florenti and he made note to himself never to underestimate this man. "You heard the man, Lord Marshal. Array the men for battle."

As Camlyn's forces set themselves to receive the charge of the barbarians, the war chieftains whipped the tribesmen into a suitable frenzy and wave upon wave of slobbering mad men began to rush toward the waiting armies of the High King with a roar as loud as the tsunami they resembled.

Florenti raised his hand and the enemy archers pulled back the strings of one hundred thousand bows and a dark cloud of arrows went into the air... and came down not upon Camlyn's upraised shields, but landed amidst the mostly naked backs of the onrushing horde. Meanwhile, the enemy's elite cavalry units, held in reserve to supplement any weak points the infantry might have developed, charged forward and quickly impaled the main body of the enemy infantry, plowing through their own men from behind like a scythe through winter wheat. Within seconds, the many different tribes that had been assembled against Camlyn splintered once more into their native groups and they fought amongst themselves in a savage battle fueled by generations of hatred.

When the carnage had ended, not a single son of Camlyn had died, and only one thousand of the enemy remained - the leader of which approached Nicolo under a red stained flag of truce.

"We have done as you commanded my lord. The enemy has been defeated."

"Well done Captain. Here is your payment, as promised."

* * * * * * * * * *

"And that, is the legend of how Niccolo Florenti was elevated from a traveling merchant, to a knighted noble."

When Niccolo was done listening to the bard recount the legend of his ascension to nobility, his loyal baron stood and asked a question. "Lord Florenti, I have heard that tale many times, and I have always wondered, how did you know that the men you hired would win?"

Niccolo laughed as loud as he had laughed in his life and it was several minutes before he could bring himself to answer. "Weren't you paying attention? I am not a gambling man. I hired them all. I only had to pay the victors."

Lord Niccolo Florenti, known as the Merchant King, Sovereign contender for the throne of Camlyn, now held in his hands the same blade that had been used by High King Avallon twenty years ago to knight him and give him his title. He smiled, as he remembered all of the extra accolades and promises Cyrus have given him when the deal had been for just a title. Cyrus had been a generous man, but had never really understood the true value of money or power. Really, they were the same thing.