Foster gazed down at the attackers that lay below the fortress. The bottom of the hill had been infested with enemy troops, packed full and brimming, yet more continued to file in. It was never ending. They marched two by two like measly ants as they set up a camp and savaged the surrounding landscape.
One of the officers stood proud and tall with a particularly pompous air, shouting orders and nitpicking over every minor detail. The man's wiry mustache was quite distasteful, in Foster's humble opinion. It resembled a limp, floppy noodle, and Foster felt the need to be rid of it before more eyes were permanently scarred. His hand inched for his bow. It would be undiplomatic, sure, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Oh, and think of the children. A single look at that man and they'd have night terrors for months. Foster nocked an arrow. Those poor, poor children shan't worry any longer. Foster would liberate them from their nightmares. He pulled the bowstring taut, ready to fire, just as Hopkins walked out onto the field.
Was it time for negotiations already? Damn. Foster made a tsk sound and relaxed his bow, slipping the arrow back into his quiver. It seemed Mustache would continue his reign of terror. For now.
Fortunately, the actual commander of the enemy troops did not have a bad mustache. He appeared much more intimidating and respectable with that great, auburn facial hair of his. Red Beard, Foster decided, would be his moniker.
Red Beard approached Hopkins, and boy, did that man tower over him. Giant meets dwarf. May Hopkins have the courage to tell Red Beard no. The two leaders exchanged salutations and diplomacy began.
Foster draped a hand over his eyes and slouched against the stonewall of the watchtower. The negotiations would run as such: the enemy would demand they surrender, Hopkins would refuse, and then the siege would begin. One week later, allied troops would arrive and they'd have won the war, for the most part.
"You're not the man I was expecting," Red Beard said.
"Do I not look like a proper leader to you?" Huh, was that a twinge of sass Foster heard in Hopkins' voice?
"My standards are quite high, I doubt you would ever be able to meet them." Red Beard went silent for a thoughtful moment. "Well, on the contrary, I'll give you one chance to prove me wrong. We have you surrounded on all sides. It would be ill-advised to put up a fight and drain your resources and mine. Prove to me that you are schooled and surrender the fort."
Hopkins laughed. He laughed while cornered by hundreds of enemy troops. "I won't do that," he said after calming down. "In fact, I'm almost offended that you suggested I do such a thing."
Foster poked his head over the wall to catch a glance at the enemy's reaction. He smirked at the look of absolute abhorrence on Mustache's face. Yeah, that's Hopkins for you, Mustache. Audacious and disrespectful. A two in one package.
Red Beard, on the other hand, was unfazed by Hopkins' blatant contempt. "Seems I was mistaken," he said. "You're much more gutsy than I had presumed."
"Yeah, that's me, and my troops are one and the same. Bold, brash, and brazen." Hopkins squared his shoulders. "We aren't surrendering this fort. Not now, not ever."
"Negotiating was never my strong suit." Red Beard sighed. "It seems I'll have to pull a few different strings. You, Mr. Hopkins, have until the count of three to surrender."
Hopkins scoffed, challenge gleaming in his eyes. "Or what?"
Foster caught a strange glimpse of red in the branches of a tree. He sat up, squinting to get a better look.
"One."
It was a person, dressed in the striking scarlet of the enemy colors. A soldier. Foster looked a little closer, noticing the wooden curve of a bow. An archer. He glanced back down at where the two leaders were locked in a standstill. Hopkins.
"Two."
Foster let out a stream of curses under his breath as he fumbled for his bow, his hands quivering beneath his stress. And fear.
"Hurry, dammit," he muttered to himself as he nocked an arrow. "Come on, come on!"
"Three."
The arrows flew, one after the other, but Foster's struck first. It hit the archer in the shoulder, not lethal, but enough to screw up his aim. His arrow flew a mile off from the planned trajectory, striking a tree past Hopkins.
Foster let out a sigh of relief before cupping his hands to yell at Hopkins. "Get back in here!"
Hopkins, still shocked by the attempt on his life, hesitated, but then made a break for the fortress gates. Red Beard signaled to his troops to aim and fire at will. Foster nocked a second arrow and let it fly. It struck a soldier in the chest before he could shoot. His bow and arrow clattered to the ground.
The gates shut, Hopkins safely inside. Foster cast one last look at the battlefield. Enemy troops were regrouping. Mustache was still standing. Red Beard locked gazes with Foster. On the outside, Red Beard's eyes were cold and steeled, but Foster knew there was a raging fire behind them. Foster smiled and gave Red Beard a salute before sliding down the watchtower ladder.
Hopkins gave directions in the bailey. His voice was calm and resolute, but Foster noted the slight trembling in Hopkins' hand. He was quite shaken by the brush of death.
"Hopkins," Foster called.
Hopkins finished speaking to another soldier before he jogged to meet Foster. "I thank every God and shooting star for your aim," Hopkins said. "You saved my life, Keith. Thank you."
"Keep it professional, Hopkins. The war effort doesn't have room for sappy men."
Hopkins straightened up. "Of course, Foster," he said. "Professional."
Deep down, though, Foster was touched by Hopkins' endearment. Typically, troops tried to avoid forming bonds with others; the battlefield wouldn't hesitate to rip apart relations, and that hurt just as much as death itself. Foster knew friendships like these were rare, and he'd try to preserve his as long as he could.
"So," Foster began, "are the operations still running?"
Hopkins nodded. "We continue as planned," he said. "The enemy's undiplomatic acts have had no effects on our current situation as brutish as they might be."
"Hopkins, sir!" One of the stable hands rushed over. "We're short a horse."
Hopkins frowned. "What do you mean?"
"There's supposed to be five horses, four, technically, since Jackson went to deliver the message, but currently, there's only three present."
"Is this really a problem?" Hopkins asked. "We're going under siege. We can't leave anyways."
"Somebody left prior to the siege, and we don't know who."
"Desertion?"
"A chargeable offense."
"Perhaps it was Rhodes," Foster said. "Maybe he decided to leave after all."
"The Captain wouldn't do that," the stable hand said. "He wouldn't abandon his men."
Foster gestured to Hopkins' uniform. "Rhodes stepped down. That in itself is abandonment."
Beside him, Hopkins sucked in a breath. "Where's Ellison?"
"Ellison?" Foster scratched his head. "Haven't seen him since I spoke with Rhodes."
Hopkins turned to the rest of the troops. "Ellison, has anyone seen Ellison?"
Most shook their heads, except for one. "Ellison rode out with Jackson," the soldier said. "Why? What's wrong?"
"He was ordered to remain here." Hopkins swore under his breath. "We have to go after him."
"We can't," Foster said. "It's too late."
"But he'll die out there."
"All you can do is pray he doesn't." Foster glanced at the fortress gates. "The siege has begun."