"And what might that be?" Darin asks.
"Dunno, Captain, what am I askin'?" you ask, laying on the sarcasm.
"Oh!" he says, the point finally dawning on him. "Yeah, the whole captain business."
"Well, Marshal," he says, a hint of annoyance in his voice as he leans back in his chair, "I jus' so happen to catch the eye of good ol' Sobik after The War. He liked what I did under yerself, so he placed me as Captain of the levies 'ere in Wrido."
You blink. "The what?"
"Captain of the levies. New position. I's the first. I got the oh-so-coveted duty of dealin' with the godforsaken recruiters." His voice is laden with bitter sarcasm.
"Uh… my condolences?" you reply, unsure.
"I 'ppreciate it. It's a fuckin' hassle. I gotta deal with all that bullshite. All the bribes, number countin', writin', the whole thing. It's probably why you's not see me much. I've been dealin' with Belos's war preparations the whole time."
"Well, I definitely give you my condolences, then."
Darin downs another gulp of ale, slamming it down with a thud. "Is why we's drinkin'. Gotta forget that bullshite somehow, aye?"
"I'd drink to that."
"Then drink."
You take another sip from your mug.
What sounds like a drinking song starts up toward the front of the tavern, slowly making its way back. It's difficult to make out the words, but the hunters around you seem to know it by heart.
It's quite catchy, and you find your foot tapping lightly to the rhythm. "Good song?" Darin asks you.
You nod. He smirks. "So, Marshal, wish to serenade the tavern?"
He already knows you're going to refuse and laughs when you do so. "I's just fuckin' with ya, lad." He leans back, taking a long swig from his mug.
You follow suit, slamming your mug back down. Darin laughs again at the sight. "If yer done drinkin', ya have any more questions for me?"
An excellent question," Darin says. "A question I ask myself all the time."
"You tryin' to elude my question?"
He sighs and hangs his head for a second. "It's just… I's so sorta stagnated, ya know? Outside of my job, I guess…"
He trails off. "I dunno. I made some good friends here. Tried huntin' for a little bit. I's not bad at it, too, but my leg makes everythin' a bit difficult. It's jus' been… hard."
You raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't clarify.
"Hold up, lad, you don't get to ask all the questions 'ere. I got one for ya. What the hell have you been doin' these five years?"
You consider the question.
Ya gotta take a break from military shite, lad," Darin says.
"I… can't. It's all I am."
Darin shakes his head. "It's all ya let yerself be. Jus'… do what keeps ya sane, okay?"
He hesitates, then continues. "And don't get pushed around. Fuckin' Sobik forced ya to help him. Did he ever even thank you for…" Darin's voice trails off. You already know he was going to say "The War." You shake your head. Darin doesn't bring that line of questioning back up.
"Well, lad. Your turn. Ask away," he says with another swig of ale.
Darin, hearing this, quaffs the last of his drink, slamming it down with a satisfied smack of his lips. You follow suit, chugging the last of your strong ale, feeling it burn your throat on the way down.
Darin lets out a hearty laugh. "There we's go, lad. Oughta hit the spot, ay?"
You nod in confirmation, and he laughs again. "Speechless, I's fuckin' knew it."
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch an approaching figure. It's a rough-looking man, maybe thirty-two years of age, with equally rough clothing. His frame is muscular and bulky, and you can see that he stands well above average height.
His skin is a shade of dark-brown, easily seen through the small gaps in his armor. His arms are left exposed, though the rest of his body is covered with mail, and you can see the edges of a gambeson underneath. That strikes you as odd. There aren't many huntsmen who can afford such protection.
The man's black hair is cut short and practical, but his beard has been left to grow. His brown eyes are locked onto your table with an almost predatory gaze. Your hand drifts toward your non-existent belt.
Darin, seeing you tense up, quietly says to you, "Easy, Marshal. He's a friend of mine. Don't stab 'im."
The huntsman stands in front of your table, eyes drifting from you, to Darin, to you, and then back to Darin. Suddenly, he breaks down laughing. "Darin, ya old sonuva bitch, ya finally decided to show up again!"
Darin sighs. "Now I've two of ya fuckers callin' me old of your own wills."
The huntsman laughs, the sound loud and boisterous. "Speakin' of which," he says, quickly turning and grabbing an unoccupied stool, then placing it down at your table. Uninvited. "Who might this be, Darin? A soldier buddy?"
You give him a slight nod. He's not necessarily wrong.
Darin chuckles to himself. "Yup, but he's also the Marshal."
"Well, well," the huntsman says, "it's good to finally meet'cha. Darin told me lots about ya. You certainly look the part, friend."
You raise an eyebrow at this, and both Darin and Velinor chuckle. "Never mind, my friend. The name's Velinor." He offers you a hand, and you shake it firmly.
After you pull your hand back, flexing it slightly after it was crushed beneath his tight grip, Velinor says, "Well, Arthur Hornraven, ever heard of Velinor? Name strike a bell?"
"Can't say it does," you reply.
Darin breaks out laughing. "See, Velinor? Not every single fuckin' person in Kanton knows who ya are. Stop tryin' that shite."
Velinor laughs good-spiritedly. "But more know me than you."
"Big deal."
Velinor scoffs in mock offense and turns back to you. "Guess that means I gotta introduce myself. I'm a hunter by trade. Damned good one, if I say so myself—"
"You self-congratulating bastard," Darin interrupts.
Velinor replies without missing a beat. "Rightfully so." He turns in his seat, purposely showing his back to Darin. Darin rolls his eyes and smiles lazily as he leans back in his chair.
"We's just got back from a hunt. Damned good one," he says. "You's ever go huntin'? With a bow?"
Velinor shrugs. "You should. Helluva good time. Puts food on the table, too."
He waves his hand dismissively. "Never mind. I'm not tryin' to pester ya or nothin'. But still, it was a good hunt."
Velinor thinks for a moment, then chuckles to himself. "Wife don't like it when I go off on them long hunts, but she don't complain when I's come back with a fat stack of silver."
"You's see, when—" he starts to say before being cut off by Darin.
"Shut it. He don't need to hear any stories right now."
"You're an ass," Velinor replies, tone joking.
"Anyways, before you wind up ramblin' to our dear Marshal here, we's best be goin'."
"Already?" Velinor asks, disappointed. "I just met him!"
"Yeah, no, I'm not listenin' to ya talk his ear off for half an hour."
You sit awkwardly off to the side, trying not to interfere with the exchange. "Well, lad, ready to head out?"
You snap back to attention. "Aye."
Darin says his goodbyes to Velinor, and the two of you leave the tavern.
Next
The air has gotten colder. The sun is fully set, bathing the streets in near-complete darkness. You and Darin navigate by the light radiating through the cracks of houses.
As you walk down the street together, Darin casually asks, "So… lad. What'cha think?"
"About?"
"Velinor. The place. I's dunno."
Darin chuckles to himself. "Ah, that it is. Those boys been good to me. Kept me company, got me drink and the like."
He hesitates, as if debating something in his head, then asks tentatively, "Ya find yerself any company?"
"No."
"Ya should," he says, but then rushes to add, "Up to you, though. I know you's ain't one for too much company."
After finishing his statement, the two of you fall silent.
The rest of the trip is dark and quiet. Only the combined footsteps of you and Darin echo through the empty streets. The quiet both calms you and puts you on edge.
Things happen in the quiet.
Next
Horrible things. When the wet forests of Krorid are quiet, something is wrong. You learned to listen to what isn't there as much as you learned to listen what is.
You shake your head to clear away the thoughts. It doesn't matter. The War is over. But as a new one starts, the memories return. Once, you could repress them. They were still there, swirling within you, but you could force them away. You could lock them up, deep within you.
Now, you can feel it changing. This approaching war only makes the memories worse. The bloody, gruesome cut The War left on you had just begun to scab. And now, staring down a new war in the face, the scab has begun to be picked away.
Grimly, you note that there will come a time when this dam breaks. There will come a time when it will all overwhelm you. It will not be tonight, nor will it be tomorrow. It may not be for many months.
But it will happen. It's inevitable. You will eventually break.
You sigh.
You can't wait until you get to sleep.
Next
-Four Weeks Since Arrival at Wrido-
The glinting of the sun on steel draws your eye from atop the walls. It has been a week since you visited the Huntsman's Respite, and already, Rade's army is at the doorstep of Wrido.
You were off by a whole two weeks.
The green dragon of House Mozoroff flies high over the invading force. Thousands of soldiers spread out over the plains of Stradford. You make out more banners, probably belonging to lesser houses who have already joined his cause.
But your attention is still captured by the sheer massive quantity of attacking forces. Your estimate is maybe twelve thousand men, the vast majority levy footmen.
You glance to your left and right, taking in the soldiers around you nervously chatting with each other. Some wear armor. All of them carry weapons. Few are real soldiers. Even fewer carry themselves with any discipline.
A truly sizable force of cavalry, comprised of nobles, knights, and rich peasants, is gathered near the main gate, putting on their armor and sharpening weapons.
The early autumn sun reflects off their shining mail hauberks and steel plates. The hauberk covers nearly the whole visible body in strong mail and is worn by nearly every one of the assembling cavalrymen. The richer ones supplement their hauberks with steel plates covering their torso. Some wear steel greaves and steel gauntlets.
Kanton's finest are wearing the newest in armor technology, wield the best weapons available, and field the best mounts money can buy. And their commander wishes to send them from the walls to die.
You're outnumbered but have the best walls this side of the continent. And Belos refuses to use them. Vedran stands alongside him, idly cheering him on as men are condemned to death.
Though you hold an idle hope that maybe it won't turn out so horrible. That maybe Rade will feel pity.
It is a weak, weak hope.
As you watch the cavalry, you suddenly feel conscious about your own lack of armor. Truly, you haven't decided whether you'll join them.
But there's too much on your mind. You lower your head. Too much stress. You clench your fists and take a deep breath. You cannot break today. Your old commanding instincts kick in.
The commander must always stay calm. The commander cannot show fear. If he does, the army will fear with him, and the army is doomed.
Next
When you look back up, a raven lands upon the battlement in front of you. It tilts its head slightly, and you look into its dark eyes. You stare, and it stares back.
Finally, without a sound, it flutters back into the blue, rejoining its conspiracy in the sky. You can count a half dozen or more, circling overhead.
You hate ravens. They're smart. They know the signs of carnage. They follow armies. They wait, circling overhead, for men to fall. They stand and watch as men butcher each other, then feed upon their corpses.
With a sigh, you look back at the ground. Best not watch the omens in the sky. You blot out the hustle and chaos of the walls as you make for the streets.
You need to clear your mind.
Next
The streets are eerie. There's a palpable tension that you can feel among the populace. Husbands depart from their wives, brothers from sisters, sons from mothers, to go fight.
Many bristle with eager anticipation. You can't share their enthusiasm.
You pass through these streets, through the two inner walls, and through the palace, blotting out everything around you. No guards disturb you on your way. They're all with the army. They're all going to die.
Finally, you reach your destination. Beyond the back of the palace lies the beautiful castle gardens. It is a place of peace and quiet. You've avoided it thus far because the quiet brings back the memories, but today you need the quiet.
For hours, all you've heard is the hustle and bustle of an army. All you've heard are the excited conversations between young men, speaking of their martial prowess. Speaking of those who they will kill.
Kantonians eagerly waiting to slaughter Kantonians. Brother on brother. The gravity of this hasn't dawned upon them yet.
You shake your head to clear your thoughts as you step into the garden.
Next
You step tentatively onto the gravel path. Though the step is muffled, it sounds loud in the quiet of the garden. All lies still. All is quiet.
The silence is only broken by the chirping of birds. You feel out of place amid such peace. You feel as if the turmoil in your mind will disturb the balance built here.
You wander slowly further and further into the garden. The path loops around in one large circle, while nature takes hold of the center and around the edges of the path. Summer flowers are dying, being replaced by those that bloom in autumn.
The flowers are beautiful hues of oranges and reds, while the trees' leaves are starting to change. Nature continues, with or without man's interference.
War disrupts the natural cycles of the world and of society. After all, grass cannot grow beneath a soldier's boot. Grass cannot grow when it is torn up and destroyed by the hooves of charging horses.
You gaze as you wander further. Finally, once you reach the furthest point of the path, you kneel down. Surrounded by nothing but the chirping birds and swaying flowers, you feel fully at peace.
You take a deep breath.
A strange talent for a warrior, you think with a chuckle.
You don't remember when you started. You don't remember ever doing it before you were disinherited.
It's been your tightly kept secret for a long time, known only to those closest to you.
Darin says that you have a natural gift. Elya has always said that you should share it. But you don't.
You have stood in front of armies, leading them into bloody battle, but you cannot bring yourself to sing in front of people. You're unsure whether it's because you're afraid of judgment, or if it's too personal to admit.
But singing makes you feel focused. It's oddly cathartic, in a way. You release your stress through your voice. You release the pain of your spinning mind through song.
Sitting alone, finally away from everyone else, you feel…
You shake your head again to clear your thoughts and refocus on singing. Try as you might, you cannot get the imminent war out of your head. So you decide to sing about it.
You briefly mull over a few songs before picking a rather grim one, which you know as "The Wandering Mourners."
It's a morbid song about death, fitting for your situation. You learned it during The War from the Krorid soldiers you fought alongside. Despite its gruesome connotations, many would sing it before going into battle as a reminder of the costs of war.
You think it's only natural to sing this before entering a war of your own.
You take another deep breath, then your voice rings out in…
Your deep voice makes the whole song sound almost scary. The words are grim, your voice heavy. It makes for an unsettling combination.
The song starts low and soft as you sing the first words.
The old man walks and weeps
Looking for his son
You pause and take another deep breath, the first words holding the air still. The next phrase picks up, the sound growing higher and louder until it peaks on the word "trod."
He treads upon the blooded path
Where his son once trod
Another breath. The sound drop backs down to the initial softness.
The old man finds no son
The final words are sung quietly, holding out the final note on "grave."
Only his grave
The ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. It feels good to sing again. However, unbeknownst to you…
------
Lada heard beautiful singing echoing from the garden. Haunting and powerful singing. She headed for the garden and stopped just outside of it, peeking through the center to find the source.
It's the Marshal. Lada wasn't expecting the Marshal to be a singer. But she feels the bass of his voice. It's low, intimidating, and fits him perfectly. She finds it incredibly alluring.
The young girl walks and weeps
Looking for her love
She treads upon the blooded path
Where her love once fought
The young girl finds no love
Only his grave
Lada's mouth falls open. He's amazing.
Knelt down, head hung low, Lada can't even see his face. But she can feel the raw sorrow and pain radiating from him. It bleeds through into his words, infusing them with a sort of weight.
The Marshal takes another deep breath, eyes drifting to the sky as he sings the next verse in his bass voice.
Dear mother walks and weeps
Looking for only me
She treads upon the blooded path
Where I had once bled
Dear mother finds no son
Only my grave
Lada briefly considers introducing herself, expressing her admiration for his voice, but decides against it. She doesn't want to ruin her chance to hear it.
And she doesn't want to get stabbed, thinking that sneaking up on the Marshal of all people would be a really easy way to.
"He's a helluva singer, ay?" a voice whispers, sounding friendly, right next to her.
She wheels around, caught off-guard, only to see the unintimidating form of an older, limping man. He runs a hand over his steel-gray hair and turns toward where the Marshal is kneeling.
Lada whispers back, "He's… very good." In more ways than just his singing, she thinks.
The older man nods knowingly, joining Lada in listening to the Marshal's final verse.
My lost soul walks and weeps
Looking for the light
It treads upon the blooded path
Where damned men once trod
My lost soul finds no light
Only my grave
Lada runs her tongue over her upper lip as she continues to watch the form of the Marshal kneeling on the trail.
The old man speaks again, this time his voice unflinchingly serious. "Stop starin'."
She turns to him. "Excuse me?"
"He doesn't like it when people watch 'im."
"I'm just listening."
"No. Ye're starin'."
Lada shrugs. "I find him attractive."
"No shite," the man says with a sigh. "Young love and all that?" His tone is almost mocking.
He then turns to leave, but just before he does, he looks back. In an ice-cold tone, he says, "Do not hurt him."
The sudden coldness catches her off-guard. "What? Are you his dad or something?"
He chuckles to himself, looking down at the ground. His steel-gray eyes suddenly snap up to meet her dark-brown ones. "Yes."
With that, he walks, or more accurately, limps away, hands at his side. When Lada looks back to the Marshal, she decides she has overstayed her welcome.
Lada stands up, takes a final glance at him, and then heads back to the palace.
The Marshal begins to stir and stand up.
Next
You force yourself up from the ground, throat slightly raw from your loud and cathartic singing. You feel relieved and at peace for the first time since you set foot in Wrido.
Your eyes drift to your right, and from your elevated position upon the raised hill of the royal palace, you can barely make out the banners of the two assembling armies.
The sight shocks you back to reality.
The cavalry will be charging soon. You steel yourself for the coming horror.
You must join the riders' doomed assault.
Next Chapter