Creation by fans of the game.

Damn, I wonder if anyone read the first two chapters? I'd like to hope so;)... it just takes a lot of patience...
Chapter II. The Family Castle of von Kreintz.

Von Kreintz is one of the new noble families. Their coat of arms depicts a passant lion on a gules field. In the name of the duke, they hold nearly half of the Northern Lands.

It must be said that the castle of von Kreintz occupied a rather strange position—very convenient in case of a siege, but not very convenient in more peaceful times: it sat atop a hill with very steep slopes, surrounded on all sides by a dense spruce forest. (The fact is, it was founded at a time when two great houses were fighting within the duchy: the Welfs and the Gobellins—the Gobellins, those who subsequently suffered defeat, fled north and for a time tried to settle there; the castle, then made of wood, was intended as one of the strongpoints, and thus a position advantageous for defense against enemies was very important). Apparently, by the start of the narrative, this forest had been spruce for several centuries, as the soil there was extremely—astoundingly even for the Northern Lands—unfertile; nothing grew on it except spruces. But since growing spruces was not an occupation popular among peasants, neither a town nor even a village appeared around the castle of von Kreintz, much like around the castle of some robber-baron; however, the absence of a village, or more precisely, a village church, was a rather serious strategic disadvantage. Church bell towers often functioned as signal fires on towers in the goblinoid Empire: just as guards on a tower, seeing fire on another, would light a signal bonfire, so too would the bell-ringers in the towers, hearing the alarm, begin to ring their own bells. But now, because there were no bell towers within a radius of approximately ten kilometers around the castle, notification fell upon the shoulders of a messenger—in this case, Brother Treerhem.

Having obtained a horse from Hyalli-the-quarter-dwarf, who was working in the stables today, Brother Treerhem leaped own and rode at full speed. However, he did not ride for long: soon the monk realized that he had nearly lost his already meager skill in horse riding and, to avoid tempting fate and risking a fall to the ground, with great difficulty slowed down the mare, who had decided to frolic properly after many days of standing idle.
After riding for about an hour, Brother Treerhem realized another thing: he had not only forgotten how to ride horses correctly, but had also forgotten the way to the castle of von Kreintz. For some time, continuing to gallop along the road, he strained to remember; and finally, he remembered. But then the mare pulled another trick: she suddenly felt a strong desire to roll in the grass, and only by a miracle did the monk manage to keep her from such an amusement. The struggle with the horse was a rather difficult and long affair, and during that time the direction changed so many times that when the exhausted Brother Treerhem finally stopped his mount and looked around, he realized that not only had he no idea where he was, but he also didn't know how to get back. The peasants who had gathered to watch the curious sight of a monk struggling with a horse laughed deafeningly, and when the rider asked them for the way to the castle of von Kreintz, they laughed even harder, deciding that Brother Monk had definitely come to entertain them today. Then Brother Treerhem said with irritation that Vikings were attacking and he needed to see the Count; but he regretted those words. The peasants were seized by such a fit—not laughter, but pure howling—that some could not even stay on their feet. In desperation, the monk, having prayed quickly for help in finding the way and relying on God's will, rode wherever his eyes led him.
To great luck, very soon—in just about two minutes—upon riding up the hill, he saw the place where the mare had it into her head to roll in the grass. It turned out that during the entire struggle they had moved only fifteen, maybe twenty meters from the road: simply a constant change of direction had greatly confused Brother Treerhem. As soon as he got back on the road, he urged the mare—who had suddenly become very obedient for some reason—into a trot, and then a gallop. And then, as if in mockery, an alarming bell began to toll. Why couldn't they have started ringing the alarm ten minutes earlier, Brother Treerhem thought with some irritation; this way I've only wasted time listening to the laughter of those stupid peasants.
Soon the village disappeared from view, and along the roadsides here and there, gradually increasing in number among the deciduous trees, spruces began to appear. "So I shall soon be with the Count," the monk noted with joy; but his joy was premature. Gazing at the forest and calculating how soon the spruce thicket would begin, Brother Treerhem did not notice that the mare was gradually slowing down more and more; that her steps were becoming less coordinated; that foam appeared on her lips. After riding like this for a very short time, the mare ran out of strength, stopped, nearly stumbling, and lay down. And no matter how the monk tried to force her to move further, she remained steadfast.
Brother Treerhem pondered. He saw only one way out—to run all the way to the castle. "Some kind of demon has possessed this horse," he thought, "it's unbelievable: first she ran off, then she nearly crushed me, and as soon as we got on the road, she immediately collapsed. And at such a moment when failure is impossible; when many people's lives depend on speed; when lying down like this—is simply not allowed!" "Filthy creature!", he exclaimed mentally in anger, and immediately with some surprise—he didn't recall such malice in himself before—cast aside the negative emotions. After all, he reasoned with himself, it is only an irrational creature. It does not understand what a high mission it had.
Gradually he managed to calm himself, looked at the sky (he was not yet used to clocks)—the sun was already noticeably dipping toward the horizon—recalled the way once more, and checked that red feather. "Seems everything is with me," he thought, "only one thing remains: Lord, help!"
  
It was almost completely dark when a small dark figure, stumbling and gasping, approached the castle of von Kreintz. The bridge was raised, and looked most like the closed mouth of some ugly, irregularly shaped demonic head with an incredible number of window-eyes, as if blinking from the uneven light of torches, and tower-horns. After a brief conversation between the guard and Brother Treerhem—for the figure was, of course, him—the maw opened and swallowed a new victim.
Brother Treerhem was tired as a dog, or rather, like a hunted horse. He had not run since he was very small, and his build was not particularly sturdy, although he was, as previously mentioned, taller than short. His constant pallor, light-red, almost faded hair, and eyes of a gray color turning white gave him an almost sickly, washed-out appearance. Now he looked simply terrible and could barely drag his feet. He had run almost the entire way, stopping only three or four times at springs or wells to drink and rest a little. He had a desperate same in his left side, although Brother Treerhem pressed it as hard as he could.
Fortunately, the guard happened to be compassionate: seeing the exhausted monk by torchlight, he immediately gave him a sip of strong schnapps "for strength" and told the monk he should lie down.
— No... wait, good man... I have business with His Lordship, urgent.
The guard looked at the visitor with regret.
— Eh, Holy Fa... (he wanted to say Holy Father, but realized that by age the monk was more suited to be his son, if not his youngest brother), Master Monk, you struggled in vain. The Count is hunting.
Brother Treerhem had not expected this. He was not devoid of vanity and imagined how he, exhausted, would enter the Count's presence, hand him the red feather, and fall unconscious. Then the Count would go with an army, disperse the Vikings, and everyone would thank Treerhem, and the old, bearded Count (Brother Treerhem had never seen Ulrich von Kreintz, but believed he looked exactly like that) would say: "He is a true hero!"... Now it was clear that this would not happen. And, what was much worse, the monastery would now almost certainly perish, everything would be looted, and the Vikings would likely not be caught.
— But how... what should I do? The monastery is being attacked by Vikings!
— It cannot be!
But meanwhile it was so, and nothing could be done—the Count and his eldest son were hunting. Apparently, they were too tired to return home and decided to spend the night under the open sky, since the days were still warm. So Brother Treerhem had only one option—to follow the guard's advice and go to sleep.
Out of respect for his spiritual rank, the guards shifted aside and freed a small but separate room for him. True, instead of a bed there was straw, and instead of a blanket—a small, thin, and in places torn plaid, but Brother Treerhem did not care: right now he was ready to sleep even in a pigsty. Despite his fatigue, he found enough willpower to ask the guard to wake him immediately upon the Count's arrival, whenever that might be.
And it happened around five. Actually, the guard would have been sleeping by then after the night shift, but now he understood that he must help save the monastery, and therefore woke Brother Treerhem. The monk took a long time to wake up, yawning, stretching, at first even just falling back asleep. And only when the guard splashed him with a mug of cold water did Brother Treerhem finally come to his senses and sit up. First thing he checked the feather.
— Well, shall we go to the Count? — he asked.
— No, not yet.
— What?! The Vikings are already at the monastery walls, and he—what is he doing?
— I don't know, I just passed word that the Vikings are advancing, and he said he would "receive the monk after some time." But it will be soon, do not worry.
Brother Treerhem understood that the Count was now gathering troops. He felt both satisfaction and disappointment simultaneously, as vanity struggled with a sense of duty within him: he would have liked to report this news to the Count himself, but at the same time understood that literally every minute mattered, as every minute cost the lives of several monks and peasants seeking refuge in the monastery.
— I see, — he answered reservedly.
— And you eat for now, or else you're probably completely spent from yesterday. Here... I managed to get some for you too.
Brother Treerhem gratefully accepted the guard's offer. He devoured the offered bread, potatoes, and piece of dried meat so quickly that the guard's eyes nearly popped out; and this despite the fact that in the monastery Brother Treerhem was known for his slow speed of food consumption. He wanted to ask the guard what his name was, to bless him in gratitude for all the help provided, but looked at the meat lying on his plate and then realized he had broken the fast. Brother Treerhem was simply hit by a cold sweat, but he remembered that in such cases breaking the fast is possible. The Abbot would certainly grumble a bit, but everything would be fine and the sin would be forgiven. "What trifles, and how much they affect me," he involuntarily smiled to himself, and at a moment when it seemed they should be forgotten.
— And what is your name, good man? — he asked the guard.
— Kasper.
Having learned the guard's name, Brother Treerhem blessed him; the latter poured out his thanks, and the monk simply didn't know where to turn, but then the door opened, and the entering person saved him from Kasper's effusions. His long shaven face expressed pride and arrogance, which were not diminished even by the circles under his eyes, and together with the long blond hair falling down, made him look like a southern Alnor.
— Are you the monk from the monastery of Saint Erheir? — he asked, addressing Brother Treerhem, — I am the son of Count Ulrich von Kreintz. Father ordered me to lead you to him.
Brother Treerhem bowed awkwardly and hurried after the nobleman. The Count's son was clearly not inclined toward conversation—he didn't even give his name—and Brother Treerhem understood him in a way: indeed, he had just returned from hunting, having ridden for at least the whole day and half the night, terribly tired (hence the circles under the eyes—it seems he didn't sleep at night and my assumption was wrong, thought the monk). And at home comes the news—the fief must be defended from Vikings, and instead of resting, one must dress in battle armor and ride full speed to the monastery. Of course, few people would like such a situation.
Brother Treerhem found it very pleasant to walk through the corridors of the castle, as he had never before been treated with such respect—the unpleasant emotions from the heir's treatment, which was something between rudeness and indifference, were more than compensated for by the delight and religious awe of the simple guards before the sacred rank of a monk. The people viewed priests and monks with a mixture of mocking dislike for the higher classes, fear of sorcerers—people accustomed over millennia to shaman-casters saw something powerful and dangerous in that closeness to God experienced by some clerics and claimed by others—and respect for those praying for the salvation of this very people's souls. Usually, the common folk's attitude toward an unknown clergyman was determined by his appearance: a satisfied or cheerful, and especially a fat monk, was laughed at; one who was gloomy and mysterious was feared; and the exhausted were admired. Brother Treerhem's look, usually gloomy, was now precisely exhausted. Of course, for him—who was respected but whom no one had ever admired—even his father, as far as Brother Treerhem remembered, was usually dissatisfied with his lack of martial spirit—the respect of the guards was very flattering.
Count Ulrich's castle was slightly smaller than the monastery of St. Erheir, but it had almost never been completed or rebuilt and its passages were not so confusing—the old wooden fortification had been torn down by the first von Kreintz to receive this land as a fief, and since enemies capable of conducting a so-called "proper siege" usually didn't reach the Northern Lands, there was no need for additional reinforcement. The entire journey—first through corridors, then across the inner courtyard, then through the keep—took no more than ten minutes. However, walking was not very easy, primarily due to the terrible stuffiness prevailing in this building that sometimes went unventilated for years. Darkness was familiar to the monk, but the air in the monastery was noticeably fresher—one of the few trials monks underwent was the trial by cold: once a week, on Fridays, the windows of the cells remained open all night; monks living in underground cells moved to above-ground ones for those nights. In the castle, however, torches even went out in some cellars due to lack of air. But finally, von Kreintz's eldest son stopped before a heavy oak door, said into it: "Father, receive the monk I have brought," ordered Brother Treerhem to enter with a gesture and departed; most likely, to arm himself. Brother Treerhem checked the feather—he had not forgotten about it for a minute, even checking specifically at stops—and entered.
The bright light from the open window hit Brother Treerhem's eyes, which had grown accustomed to the gloom during the walk through the keep, so that for several seconds he saw almost nothing and only bent in a respectful bow.
— I greet you, monk, — said the old Count, who turned out to be a short, agile shaven man with a weather-beaten face, — I was told you came with an important errand from the Abbot. Tell me everything in more detail.
And Brother Treerhem, first handing the feather to the Count and introducing himself, detailed everything that had happened to him after his parting with the Abbot. The story would have been very good if Ulrich hadn't kept interrupting the monk, either jumping ahead with questions ("...I went to the stables" — "Then why did you run here on foot?") or asking to repeat something ("How many of those ship-wreckers do you say are there?"). At the end he asked:
— And why did you run? Why didn't you ask a peasant for a horse? If you had arrived even an hour earlier, you could have caught the castellan—he would have started gathering the troops!
Conscience passed over the monk like a sharp claw. It must be admitted that this idea—to ask peasants for a horse—had not occurred to him. For him, this seemingly simple and correct solution was not obvious at all. There could be no doubt that a peasant would gladly give not only a horse, but even all his livestock and property to save himself from the Vikings; the laughter with which this message was met by those watching Brother Treerhem's struggle with the mare was caused by the preceding spectacle, which convinced the peasants of this monk's lack of seriousness. But Brother Treerhem, trained in arguing with the Abbot, quickly came up with an excuse:
— I am one of the chroniclers, and the peasants do not know me at all. If I had tried to ask them for a horse, I would surely have been simply driven away or seized as a rogue.
Of course, such a possibility was not excluded, especially if one recalled several cases where some outsiders, disguised as monks, used trickery to take honestly earned property from peasants. But it was unlikely that peasants would drive away a real monk, even more so one asking for help in the face of a Viking invasion, when the alarm is already being rung at the monastery and churches.
— You're saying something wrong. They can't be seizing monks under an alarm. Well anyway—what's done is done. Troops are already gathering. So... the Vikings have four-five drakkars...
— Lord Count, the fishermen said eight!
— And you take their word for it, — von Kreintz asked with a smirk, — They call a caught gudgeon a pike! Everything they report must be divided by at least two. So. You've distracted me from my calculations! On each of the drakkars sit twenty to twenty-five professional thugs armed to the teeth. That makes eighty, or more likely around a hundred. How many monks can I count on? — he suddenly and very sharply turned to Brother Treerhem.
The monk was so taken aback that for the first second or two he didn't know what to say; eventually he managed to squeeze out:
— I-I don't wish to seem rude, Lord Count, but all the monks are counting on you.
— Ah, you simply didn't understand, — Ulrich said, softening slightly, — I am talking about monks who can fight. Those clubs... that is, club-bearers.
— I do not wish to misinform you, Lord Count, and I want to warn in advance that my estimate...
— Listen, you don't know everything, but you're no fool. That much is clear. Just answer the question: how many, in your opinion?
— No more than thirty. And keep in mind, they are much weaker than both the Vikings and your fighters. Although they could take crossbows.
— Thirty... thirty, or even fewer, skin-and-bones—sorry, Brother Treerhem, it just slipped out—with my boys... against a hundred... It turns out I need about ninety people, maybe more. So we will be at the monastery in about nine hours: the assembly has already been announced, we gather for four hours, march for five.
Ordinary politeness did not leave the monk, but his face apparently expressed such disappointment that the Count hurried to add:
— But generally, in fact, everything will be ready faster. One could actually go with a smaller detachment and set a wider pace—after all, it's about saving a monastery, not playing tag!
— But... even six hours might already be too late. It costs the Vikings nothing to break down the gates, and as soon as they burst in, then... — Brother Treerhem involuntarily shuddered, imagining monks floating in puddles of their own blood, disfigured by the horror of death or Viking axes.
— I perfectly understand your fears, — Ulrich said with a sympathy he seemed incapable of, — but what can I do? I sent people to announce the assembly as soon as I was informed of the danger. Believe me, I regret possible casualties no less than you, and I want to prevent bloodshed no less than you.
— But enough of that, — von Kreintz cut off his speech, — I need to prepare and dress in battle armor, and you need to decide: will you go with us or ride ahead?
After thinking for a bit, Brother Treerhem said:
— I will ride to the monastery. I will be more useful there: I will instill in them hope of your soon arrival and hasten the preparations for defense.
— Well then, I expected such a decision. Go and tell the stableman to give you a horse. Helbert, one of the guards by my quarters, will escort you.
The monk had already bowed and turned toward the exit when the Count unexpectedly called him:
— Ah, yes, Brother Treerhem, wait.
— I must give you a weapon, — he continued, rummaging in a large iron-bound chest, — here... Take this. Remember the custom? "Suzerain on approach."
And with these words von Kreintz handed Brother Treerhem a simple, almost unadorned sword. The monk took it and for some time just held it in his hands, examining it. It was one-handed, without any decorations, with a dark narrow piercing blade that seemed sharply sharpened to the eye; Brother Treerhem decided that the sword had been made by mountain dwarves, but then again, his opinion cannot be relied upon here—regarding weapons, he was a complete novice.
— Heh, why are you examining the sword like that, — the Count smirked, — as if you're going into battle! It's not for fighting.