The mass grave stretches far beyond what the eye can see. Hastily dug by your own forces, it has no chance of surviving the incoming thunderstorm. The tall trees bend with the weight of the water.
The town itself is a burnt ruin. You dig up its small amount of farmland for your grave. Not like anyone will use it again.
Bodies, many hours already dead, fall down with the landslides tearing the plateau apart. It's a sight from the Apocalypse. As the winds blow and the mud churns, what was once buried is pulled to the surface.
Darin, still at your side, curls over and empties his stomach onto the ground. You follow seconds later.
To clear the bodies, you attempt cremation. A bonfire is lit. But the southwestern rains keep the wood damp and the bodies even more so.
The smoke cloud that rises turns the sky to ash and eclipses the sun.
And the cloud reeks of death.
You shake yourself back to reality.
Next
"Marshal! Hey! Arthur Hornraven!" The voice sounds distant.
Your head throbs rhythmically like the beating of a drum. You feel short of breath. Adrenaline fires through you. You clench your fists to the point of drawing blood. You're standing in the hallway, the world unfocused around you.
"Arthur Hornraven, you okay?" Darin asks.
"I was just… remembering something," you reply, staring into space.
"You's looked like ya were somewhere else, lad. Musta been a helluva memory, then, ay?"
You nod and chuckle darkly. "Yeah. Yeah… I guess you could say that. It was about…" You trail off. You can hardly bring yourself to say the name.
"What?" Darin asks, unsettled.
You finally snap from your trance and look him in the eye. "Alverton."
That cursed place.
His expression goes from one of great concern to completely blank in seconds. He leans back, his eyes distant, trapped in another world. After a pause, he shakes his head to clear away the memory, a habit you both seem to share.
"Oh," Darin says, slightly nodding to himself. "We's get through it all together, Arthur Hornraven. You and me. Like the old times, ay?" His tone is somewhat frantic, almost as if he needs you to agree with him.
He plants a hand on your shoulder, but the contact only causes you to flinch. He pulls away and crosses his arms, realizing his mistake.
Darin gives you a nod. And then another. "Well, we's should keep movin'. Best get to the twins sooner rather than later, ay?"
You return the nod. He looks you in the eye. His own eyes ask, plead, for you to be okay. They plead for you to be okay because his are not.
"Are you okay, Darin?" you ask, low and deliberate. The question catches him off guard. Darin hesitates, looks at the floor, then chuckles grimly to himself. He looks you in the eye once more, his steel-gray eyes meeting your own.
"I's don't know."
You continue the rest of the way in silence.
Next
You take a deep breath and knock on the door of the war room. A young man, barely past his nineteenth winter, opens the door slightly and peeks through.
"Name?" he demands.
Darin, still by your side, sighs. "It's Arthur Hornraven, you idiot."
His eyes flick over to where Darin is standing. He offers both of you a slow nod as he opens the door fully for you to enter. You enter the dimly lit war room, Darin following closely behind.
A large table sits in the center of the room, a roughly drawn map strewn over it. A handful of stools are pulled up to the table. You recognize the shapes of Belos and Vedran sprawling over the map.
A pair of wooden bookshelves occupy the left wall, leaving the right feeling bare. No natural light enters the cramped space. The only light is provided by candles scattered across the table.
Belos mutters something to Vedran in a low voice. Vedran nods emphatically in return. You narrow your eyes at the sight but say nothing.
As you step in, two guards posted at the end of the room snap to attention. Belos looks up from the map and sees the pair of you entering. He clasps his hands together and offers you a fake smile. "How nice of you to finally join us."
You open your mouth to respond, but he waves his hand dismissively. "Save it. I don't want to know."
Vedran chuckles to himself. "Nor do I."
"Join us around the map, would you?" Belos says to you. He then turns to Darin. "As for you, Captain, you're dismissed."
Darin clears his throat. "I's prefer to stay here, if ye'd have me, Your Majesty."
Majesty?
You join the twins around the table. It feels odd to slide in next to them. Planning war with your… actual brothers—or half-brothers at the very least—is something you've never done before.
The young man who let you in earlier is standing in the doorway awkwardly. Belos glances up and sees him. He signals for him to approach, saying, "Sir Obren, why don't you fill our dear Marshal in on our predicament?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," he replies with a slight bow.
This man is definitely young. He's a youth of nineteen, though he holds himself with high authority. He wears a padded gambeson but no mail or steel. By his title of 'Sir,' you suspect he's some sort of knight, meaning he must have his full armor stored elsewhere.
He has piercing blue eyes, short dark brown hair, and a clean-shaven face. His skin is dark brown and relatively unmarred. It's natural for a youth to be without scars.
You're the unnatural one.
He takes his position.
Then he takes a deep breath.
Next
"Belos is now King of Kanton. Long may he live."
Vedran echoes, "Long may he live." Belos shoots you a glance to read your expression. You wear none. He shrugs.
You notice that whatever sorrow Belos and Vedran feel about the death of their father is buried deep. At least for now. Such is the way of the world. When planning, it's no time to grieve.
But you can tell they do grieve. Maybe not consciously, but it's there. The terrible emotion of grief. You know first-hand that grief can bring down the strongest of men. But worst of all, from a tactical perspective at least, it influences decisions.
You turn your thoughts back to the present as Obren starts to speak again. "The former queen consort has informed His Majesty of the situation regarding the late King Sobik, after personal questioning."
Finally.
"Oh yes, about that." Belos says as he clasps his hands together again. Strange habit, you think as you rub your finger stumps absentmindedly.
"I take it that was what you were attempting to inform Elya about?"
He stiffens up slightly. "I'd personally prefer it if you kept things formal."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
He nods in satisfaction. "It was admirable, I must admit. Mira's… vendetta against you is something I plan to address."
"However," he says, shifting his weight on his seat, "that is a topic for another time. Back to business."
"When I interrogated Moth—Mira, she revealed that it was a certain Duke Rade Morozoff who killed my—our father." He looks up at you, eyes blazing with fury, "Is this true?"
You nod in confirmation. He goes blank for a second before snapping his focus back to you. "We must get our revenge."
Vedran interjects, voice laden with anger, "Rade will pay."
Seeing the twins so riled up makes you concerned. Emotions lead to casualties. So many times on the battlefield, you've seen a soldier lose their cool and rush, or lose their nerve and flee. Both result in death. Most casualties are inflicted when an army is in flight, after all.
"I'd advise caution," you say flatly.
Belos shakes his head. "Do you not feel anything at our father's death?"
You don't answer the question, instead shifting the topic. "At least listen to my counsel."
He hesitates, but then agrees.
As you lean over the table, finger pointing at the parchment map before you all, you hide a grim smile. You're at a war counsel. You're in your element. This is your life. You know this.
You are this.
Next
You point at a section of the map labeled Stradford. In the near center of this decently large chunk is the city of Wrido. You then slide your finger east, pointing to the province on Stradford's direct border. Reicster. "This," you say, still pointing, "is Reicster. Rade's home province." The twins nod.
"If we consider that he already has an army formed, which he probably does not, it will take him five weeks, maybe more, to arrive at Wrido."
Unless he's already on the way.
You glance up to make sure they're following, then continue. "Our contingent that was accompanying Sobik is two weeks out. I rode ahead, as I'm sure Mira told you." Your rear and legs still ache. "We've got five hundred good men. Maybe fifty of them are mounted."
Looking up at Belos, you ask the question you've been dreading. "How many do we have in Wrido?"
He shrugs. "We could muster five thousand—"
"No. How many do we have now?"
"Three thousand. Under father's last decree, three thousand men were to be given professional training and armed as career soldiers."
"Who is overseeing this training?" you ask. You weren't made aware of such developments.
"Sir Obren Volny," Belos replies, gesturing to the young man in the corner. He gives you a nod.
You ask Obren, "When was training started?"
"A month ago… sir?" His statement takes on a questioning tone, as he doesn't know how to address you.
"Call me 'Marshal,'" you say.
He gives you a nod. "Understood, Marshal."
Having someone besides Darin call you 'Marshal' makes you feel nostalgic. Not since The—
You stop that line of thought before it can go anywhere. You have your own war to fight. The Border Wars are over.
Focusing once again, you say, "Well, that's essentially just three thousand levies. They aren't going to be much better than most peasants. But," you continue with one finger in the air, "we've got the advantage of time. And walls. If we keep havin' Obren work on those troops, we could have them drilled well by the time Rade arrives."
"We could also send out recruiters and levy the townsfolk. Total… that would give us nearly eight-and-a-half thousand, plus any noblemen or knights who are willing to help defend. Combine that with our walls, and we can easily hold the city."
The ghost of a smile spreads across your face. You feel a twinge of pride. It's a solid plan if you've ever heard of one. For the time being, at least.
After this… we can go out recruiting and raise an army even larger. You do the mental calculations in your head. All of Stradford could easily provide nearly fifteen thousand men. Combine that with the eight thousand… minus five thousand for the men from Wrido… not even counting the manpower tax provided by Kanton's vassals…
Eighteen-and-a-half thousand.
By God.
Next
That's almost twice as many Kantonians than fought in The War.
Vedran looks satisfied. However, Belos hesitates, then shakes his head. Vedran quickly follows, also shaking his head. Belos says, "While I do appreciate your ideas, brother, I will not settle for a strategy that would leave us cowering behind our walls."
You meet his gaze and counter, "It isn't cowardice to play to our strengths."
"We must face this Duke Rade and show him that he cannot defile the authority of the crown and run free."
You pause and take a deep breath, closing your eyes. In the corner, Darin tenses up.
You open them and ask Belos, "Do you know what they called Duke Rade during The War?"
He shakes his head.