"Here you are lads," Biter said, planting down three mugs filled with foamy liquid onto the table. "The good stuff."
"And what is the 'good stuff'?" Conrad asked.
Biter shrugged. "Whatever everyone else was having. It'll get you drunk, and by the sour look on your face, that's what you need."
Conrad grimaced. He pushed his finger into his drink, and swirled it around to remove as much of the head as possible. He wanted to see what lay beyond the foam, though once he saw the colour of the drink, he wished he had left it alone. Yellow, murky, it was like a dehydrated man had pissed directly into a mug and sold it for a few silvers. Not the most appetising thing, though nothing short of liquid gold could have enticed Conrad to get drunk tonight. While Arten and Biter had things to celebrate, his night was one of loss. Two friends, his only friends, going onto better things.
Arten placed a strong hand on Conrad's shoulder. "We don't have to be here if you want."
Conrad shook his head. He'd liked to have been somewhere else, though he dared not say it. The pub wasn't the finest place. It was loud, to start, impossibly loud with the cheers and roars of victorious soldiers. Barrels were broken open every few seconds, as a river's worth of shite beer was being gulped down. Between songs, laughing and hollering, Conrad could barely hear anything Biter or Arten said, especially with the softer voice of the latter.
It was good then, that he'd learned to read lips over his time fighting for Drevon. With cannons booming overhead, and men screaming as they died, it was an important skill to know what a man was saying without being able to hear him. Even though Conrad could understand his friends, the noise of the place still bothered him to no end. The air was thick too. Humid, and stinking, the body odour of over two-hundred men crammed into a space meant for fifty at most. It made Conrad wince as he took his first sip from his drink. Still, he did not want to leave this place. He couldn't ruin Biter and Arten's evening.
"Nah," Conrad said to Arten. "We're staying here, so long as it's what you lads want. It's your night." He raised his mug half-heartedly. Biter slammed his drink into the mug with glee.
As soon as Conrad raised his drink back to his lips, Biter tipped the mug from the bottom, causing the murky, bitter liquid to spill all over Conrad's chin. Biter laughed heartily, stumbling even while sitting.
"I don't know how many drinks you've had before," Arten said. "But I can't believe you're bladdered already. The sun's barely gone down mate."
Biter held a dramatic hand to his chest. "I've had nothing else but these two sips my lad."
Both Conrad and Arten raised an eyebrow at Biter.
"So, you're a lightweight then?" Conrad asked.
"N-no."
"One or the other mate," Conrad said. "You've either been nicking drinks off other people or you can't handle two sips. Pick a side, dickhead."
Biter put his drink down and frowned. "I could have you both flogged for insubordination. I'm a Captain now."
"Captain Lightweight," Arten said. "Now that will strike fear into the hearts of many."
"I'll strike my fist into your forehead in a minute," Biter said. He drained his drink dry and slammed the empty mug on the table. "Another anyone?"
Conrad shook his head. "I think you'd best pace yourself, grandad."
Now Biter looked infuriated. He grabbed hold of Conrad's ear firmly, twisting it in his stumpy, grubby fingers. "Have a go then?"
"No thanks," Conrad said, smiling through the pinching pain on his ear. Biter let go of his friend, and sat back down on his creaking stool. A few other soldiers had been watching the exchange, no doubt hoping for a bit of violence, perhaps even some blood. Alas, they'd have to wait until later for such excitement, when everyone else was as drunk as Biter was after one pint.
After a few moments of quiet conversation between Arten and Conrad, Biter gave up sulking and got everyone another drink. He forced the remainder of Conrad's first pint down the unwilling throat of the young man, while again gulping his own drink as if he'd been lost in a desert for weeks.
"Captain," Biter said, smiling to himself, and speaking to no one in particular. "That's what they'll call me."
"That's what they'll call you," Arten said, raising his mug in a toast. No one else returned the gesture.
"No more Biter, no more snivelling piglets like you lot taking the piss because of one thing I did. Bastards, the lot of you. Oh, how I wish you were both in my unit, you'd be up at dawn every morning for drills, and marching until midnight every evening. You'd be dead within a week."
"They'll probably have me doing that in the Third anyway," Arten said quietly. "Just without the death I hope."
Biter shook his head. "Nah mate, in the Third, you'll spend your days drinking and whoring and doing whatever you like until an order comes through the line. March here, destroy a village, march home. March there, break that Vovequian line that's held for weeks, then let the rest of the army move on. That's what the Third do, mate, we've all been watching it for years now. You'll be one of Drevon's heroes."
"I'm not sure what you described counts as heroism," Arten said. "To be honest, I was hoping to hear news more like yours, Biter. I wouldn't mind climbing the ranks. After all, you can only make a difference from the top."
"Bollocks," Biter scoffed. "Look at yesterday, when we saved that lass."
"I thought you'd have rather left her to her fate," Conrad interjected.
Biter hummed in agreement. "That I would, though that's because I'm a moody, short prick who doesn't believe there's a point in all that helping. You lads though, you can make any sort of difference you like. Small or big," Conrad spotted a tear in Biter's eye. "I'm just… proud of you. Both of you."
Arten and Conrad shared a look.
"Some fresh air?" Arten suggested.
"Let's," Conrad agreed.
They finished their drinks and dragged Biter from the pub. Though Conrad wasn't as drunk as he should be, he welcomed the escape from the thick, musty air of the place. The chilled evening breeze cut under his clothes, cooling the sweat pouring from his armpits, groin and forehead. Around him, he could see other drunkards stumbling around. Soldiers, the lot of them, the locals hadn't deemed it safe to exit their homes yet, and they were right. Usually, Conrad thought the Drevonish military was a fine thing to serve in, and he fought happily for it. There wasn't any pride in it though. No, pride was for the sycophants and zealots, but nevertheless, Conrad deemed his fellow soldiers as decent enough people. That was until nights like these.
Some lads were pounding at the doors of random houses, either trying to find a place to rest or continue their merriment. Others were too far gone, throwing up in the streets and pissing in front of anyone daft enough to look. The worst of the lot were in the destructive phase of drunkenness, swinging their fists at anyone who looked at them, or just smashing up windows and the nearby stalls of traders, all while proudly wearing Drevon's colours. Those were the ones Conrad hated. The rest, well he couldn't say he'd never been there, and that was enough to leave them be. No matter how drunk he was though, or how sour his mood, he'd never been a real arsehole about it. Besides, it wasn't even late, and all these pricks outside the pub had already drunk far too much.
"Did you hear me?" Arten asked.
Conrad shook his head. "No mate, sorry."
"It's alright, I was just saying look at the state of this lot. I thought Biter was a lightweight."
"I am not," Biter slurred. He was leant against the wall of the pub, looking mean and fed up one moment, then smiling to himself like an idiot the next.
"They're celebrating, I suppose," Conrad said. "Who can blame them for being a bit rowdy?"
"I doubt all of them got promotions," Arten tutted. "You're not even going anywhere, for starters."
Conrad frowned.
"I just mean if anyone deserves something good mate, it's you," Arten said genuinely.
Conrad shook his head. "Nah mate, the Eighth is just right for me, I think. Not too great, not too shite either. Sums me up right."
"If you say so," Arten said. "Are you going to be alright without us though?"
"Of course," Conrad said.
"He means cause you've got no mates," Biter hollered from the wall.
"Yes, Captain Lightweight, I understood."
"Can we have another drink?" Biter pleaded. "I'm not ready to go to bed yet."
"It is cold out," Arten said. "But I'm not going back into that hole of a place. Come, there's a lovely area of green I found while you two were knocking each other senseless this morning. Plus," he rummaged in a satchel at his side before pulling out a small bottle of amber liquid. "A gift from my father when I left for Vovequia."
"You've been keeping that away from us for years?" Biter said, looking at the drink as though it were the Patriarch's gleaming armour.
"Well, he sent me off with a few bottles to begin with, and I take little sips on special occasions. Good stuff it is, Dolpon's finest Muksun."
"Muksun?"
"Yeah, there's fruit juices within the alcohol, helps it go down. Got to be careful though, it's strong stuff."
"Then it'll go perfectly well with this," Biter said, pulling from behind his back a finely crafted pipe, which was still faintly lit, giving off a small spiral of smoke."
Arten frowned. "Where'd you get that?"
"I've always had light fingers, and I was bored. What more can I say?"
"Not sure I'd call those little stubs light," Conrad said.
Nestled in the heart of backstreets, dingy alleys and cobbles covered in garish paint, Arten's spot of green was a serene secret. According to the big lad, there were plenty of places like this scattered across Quenasses; patches of tame wilderness that reminded the citizens there was more to life than grey stone, rotting wood and gaudy paints.
It was an enclosed space, small and surrounded by thick hedges. Conrad first thought Arten had led them into someone's garden, though he couldn't see any houses around and no one complained as they set foot on the soft, wet grass. Though, whether there would have been anyone to complain is another matter entirely. Anyone left in Quenasses was either a soldier or a civilian, trapped and too scared to challenge them.
A few flowers were scattered around the place, seemingly without much reasoning. There were no colourful petals, only the stalks of the plants were surviving in the autumn. A pond sat towards the back of the space, with a few large, orangish fish that Conrad didn't recognise. He knew Arten would know what these fish were, where they came from, he just couldn't be arsed asking.
They squeezed onto the one bench near the pond. Though pretty enough to look at – with floral patterns and heroic depictions carved into wherever a person's arse wouldn't cover – the stone was cold and wet to the touch. Conrad grimaced as his trousers clung to his skin, cold and damp.
"Not a bad place, this," Biter said, elbowing Conrad aside to make more room for himself. Conrad wasn't sure whether the bald man was doing this purposely or not.
Arten nodded, taking a swig from his bottle of Muskun. He passed the bottle to Conrad, who cautiously took a drink. A sour, fruity flavour worked its way around his mouth and down his throat. The liquid was thicker than water, almost like drinking syrup, and despite Arten's claims, it tasted less of fruit and more of strong alcohol.
"View's not bad and all," Biter continued. He had a laddish smirk on his face, and Conrad knew he wasn't talking about the pretty way moonlight reflected off the waters of the pond. Following his eyes Conrad saw where his friend was looking and tutted with dissatisfaction.
"It's a statue," Conrad said. "And you can't even see anything from here, her back's facing towards us."
"Have you never laid with a woman?" Biter asked, genuinely offended. "The arse, that's the best bit, even if it is covered up. And the thighs too, mate those are the things worth living for."
"Could you not," Arten began. "For one minute, take something as what it is? The statue is of a god, not the latest woman you paid to tell you 'it's so big.'"
Biter folded his arms and puffed on his stolen pipe. "You appreciate things for your reasons, and I'll do the same for mine. Just because I'm staring doesn't mean I'm a strange one lad."
"You see no beauty," Arten said. "Only the behind, breasts, and basest of things. Get some culture."
"Oh, I've got plenty mate, I just appreciate the female form," Biter tapped his head. "It's the way I was made, so pipe down and sip on your fruit juice."
Conrad hated when Biter told someone to 'pipe down.' It made no sense, was condescending and usually ended with someone doing anything but piping down.
"What a lovely way to end our time together," Arten tutted. "Bickering like… well like something."
"Bickering like the children of a Count after he's died," Biter said.
"A bit longwinded," Arten said. "But it'll do."
Silence took over for a time after that. Biter seemed content in his staring at the Giver of Life, and Arten looked for a few moments as though he might say something, but retreated into staring at his bottle after a second. Conrad didn't care to start conversation, or that's what he'd have liked to think. In fact, he couldn't think of anything to say, the right way to say it. Perhaps the other two were thinking the same.
"Favourite siege?" Biter blurted out of nowhere.
Conrad pondered the question for a moment, before he remembered the only siege he'd actually liked. "Flall," he answered. "First one we had, and the best."
"Was a good one, that," Biter said. "Before the frigid bitch got all her Shatterers in order. We could have proper fights then."
"The main square was a mess," Arten chuckled. "Our cavalry charging theirs all around that pretty fountain. Can't even remember the name of it now."
"Doesn't matter," Biter said. "I heard the Patriarch wants it called the Fountain of Blood, or something like that."
"Charming," Arten said, swigging his drink. "My favourite was Tiirnal. Lovely place. Quaint, quiet, where the natural world met that of man."
Biter scrunched his nose. "Nah mate, Tiirnal was a shite siege. The place didn't even have walls. We walked in, demanded their surrender and they did it. No scrapping, not even a good rest."
"I liked it best because it was the only place we didn't destroy," Arten said. "Nor did we lose any men."
Biter folded his arms again. "I knew you'd say something like that. You know I never said the favourite siege had to be in Vovequia. Mine was when we took Castle Blush."
Castle Blush, as it was known to all but the Fellanders who'd built it, was a huge fort built on the Eastern coast of Drevon. First established long before Drevon was united, and raiders from across the sea still came, Dynasty Fort stood as an impregnable barrier, protecting Felland and Drevon. Over time, the fort was built upon, with the same stone that had originally made the small castle, and by the ancestors of the builders who'd originally worked on it. It eventually became a home for Felland's last pocket of rebellion against the Patriarch, though it was named Castle Blush long before that, as the old Felland stone that had built the entire fortification revealed that when exposed to rain and air for long periods of time, it turned a bright, pinkish colour, like that of a blushing maid.
"Neither of us were there for Blush you old sod," Conrad said. "That was before I was even in training."
"Oh ho," Biter laughed. "You missed a belter of a siege you did. Tell you what, even if it is pink, that castle wasn't half defensible. The worst of it was that some of the Felland lads stole some guns from Uttoll, so it was as even as an even fight could get. Oh, you should've heard the Patriarch. He nearly killed Dreor that day. Left it to her to get the castle to surrender. That's something I liked about it too, actually. Without the Patriarch, things felt a bit more even."
"Don't get me wrong," Conrad said. "It's nice to have the walls of a city blasted to pieces before you go in. I'd rather not have my scalp seared by tar and all that, but I tell you what battles aren't half boring now."
"And you tell me to watch my tongue," Arten said. "A Gunner catches you saying that and you'll be whacked round the back of the head in no time."
"I'm surprised you even have a favourite siege, Conrad," Biter rumbled. "I've not seen you smile during a single one of them."
"I don't smile in a battle, I'm not damaged in the head like you. I'd even refrain from biting out a man's throat, if you can believe it."
"Bit below the belt that mate," Biter said. "I'll excuse it though. I'd be sour too if I was in your shoes."
"Fuck off," Conrad said quickly.
Biter nodded, his smile fading. "Sorry mate. We'll still see each other around though. Who else is going to knock your arse to the floor when you need it most?"
Conrad shook his head. "It could be years before we meet again. Or the war could be over, then it's back home for both of you, I imagine?"
Arten nodded. "You never know, eh? It is just a fact of life though mate. People come and go. I'm sure back home you had some mates, and the same happened to them. The same will likely happen to whatever other lot you buddy up with in the Eighth."
"Yeah," Conrad said. He hadn't got any mates back home. There weren't any children around his age back home, actually. Unlike Arten's youth spent in a bustling coastal town in Dolpon, Conrad had grown up in a village on the border of Zagravin. He couldn't remember much of his years there, though there were many of them. One thing he could feel as soon as he thought of home though was the heat of his father's forge. He'd always found the intensity of it uncomfortable, the oppressiveness of the flames made him sweat and want to leave as soon as he walked near the forge.
I don't think he ever realised how shit of a blacksmith I would've been, Conrad told himself. He smiled at the thought, let it push his worries of losing his friends aside. Couldn't think about that, there was no point. It was as Arten said. A simple fact of life, losing mates, better to have them leave this way than dying.
Remember, Conrad thought again. You never wanted mates to begin with. A soldier makes brothers from friends, and you couldn't stand to lose that many brothers.
"I might call it a night," Conrad said. Usually, when he said he might do something, he would always end up doing it.
"Nah," Biter slurred. "Stay, get more drunk, we've got plenty of night left."
"You do, I don't. Marching in the morning remember, not all of us are stationed here awaiting the rest of the Grand Council's arrival."
Conrad turned to leave, only to be grabbed by the wrist by Arten. "Stay an hour more, you know you want to."
"And you're a bitch if you leave now!" Biter added.
Conrad rolled his tongue in his mouth, smiling. "Well, I'd rather not be seen as a bitch, so I suppose I'll sit back down."
"There's a good lad. Now, would you like a bit of whatever it is I've been smoking?"
At first, Conrad was reluctant. He'd never smoked anything before, and in all honesty thought the practise was best suited to arseholes and anyone who'd ran out of ideas in how to show off their wealth. Still, this was the night to try things if there ever was one.
"Breathe in slowly," Biter said, passing the pipe. "Then let it swivel in your mouth for a bit, don't do anything too quick or you'll cough and look like a prick."
A few seconds later and Conrad was coughing and looking like a prick. His eyes watered from the smoke in his mouth, and saliva spattered all over Arten and the floor underneath. All three Zweihanders burst into laughter.
"This is why…" Conrad sputtered. "I'm not meant for high society."
"Pfft," Arten said. "No such thing. There's people mate, that's all, and most of them aren't cultured enough, or anything enough to be considered worthy of 'high society'"
"Spoken like the son of a wealthy man," Biter laughed. "I lived in the Pits of Felland lad, I know that there's a divide in this world, and the ones who pretend not to see it are on the better side."
"There's a divide alright," Conrad said. "Though I only think it's between bald aresholes and the rest of us."
For his comment Conrad earned a slap around the ear, though Biter laughed off the insult eventually.
After that, the night continued on, with more drinking, smoking, laughing and remembering. Biter was insulted some more, though he dealt out beatings whenever it went too far, and there were a few times Arten had to split the other two up from wrestling each other to death. In every moment of silence though, every lull between new topics of conversation, all Conrad could think about was the next day, and the days that would come after that. All the time he'd spend alone, and how far his friends would go while he was stuck in the same old regiment. Partly he was proud of them, though mostly he was sick of himself. He couldn't say why, he'd always been fairly happy with who he was, what he wanted, and where his life was headed. No big dreams floated in Conrad's head. He was a man of manageable goals, simple ambitions and nothing else.
Still, as he went to bed that night all he could do was regret not trying for more. Would he always be left in the dust? Would he do anything more than cut men down for money? Did he even want to do more than that? That was the worst question of them all, and Conrad didn't have an answer for any of them. He rolled about in his tent until dawn came, and he was marched out of Quenasses and away from the only two people he knew in an army of dozens of thousands of men.