Darin looks… genuinely hurt. "God forbid I just… look out for you, then?"
You sigh. "I'm doin' this regardless of your protests."
Darin's lips press into a fine line. "If ya die, lad, by God I will…" He trails off. Obren clears his throat and steps forward. "If it makes you feel better, Captain, I'm going with him. We'll have an escort, as well."
"It doesn't," Darin replies, "but… I ain't gonna stop ya."
"I appreciate that," you deadpan. He chuckles and offers you a tired half-smile.
"Tell Mozoroff I said that he should go fuck himself, will ya?"
Next
The portcullis slams shut behind you, resounding with finality. You flick Aurora's reins, setting out at a slow trot. The group of ten knights and Obren lining up next to you feels oddly familiar.
Like you just did this three months ago.
The enemy line is more imposing from this lower position. It stretches on forever, encircling the entire city. Choking it. Starving it while starving themselves.
The snow has stopped falling, now only being added to the layers already coating the fields. You glance behind you, back at the walls, slowly moving farther away from you. Lined up against the walls is a grisly sight.
Bodies, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, litter the fields leading up to the walls. Their bodies sit and jut out of the snow at unnatural angles, their ominous stillness more terrible than if they were moving. Armor, splintered and destroyed, lies buried beneath the snowdrift.
Faces, torn to shreds by the birds of prey who eat what flesh they can, stare unblinking toward the sky. Others lie face down, having died and drowned in the snow a hundred times over.
Decay has long since passed its first stages. The bodies have bloated and leaked horrid fluids. The organs have started to liquify. But then winter came. The chill halted the decomposition, turning it into an unnatural state of frozen, partially liquified carrion, never decaying down to the bones. These gruesome puddles used to be people.
You shudder and turn back to the matter at hand. The riding must be precise. The enemy camp is five hundred yards from the walls. You need to move two hundred fifty yards, placing you on neutral ground, where both sides will have equal archer coverage.
It's risky. You know it's risky. But there's nothing else you can do.
You reach a hundred yards. The group halts at your order. They glance around with uncertainty. Any further, and their archers will be in range. With a deep breath, you unfurl the white banner of truce.
And continue to move.
Next
No arrows fall. Encouraged by this, you set Aurora out further, finally reaching the halfway point. You share a glance with Obren, who offers you a shrug. The small contingent with you is antsy, shifting in their saddles as they stare down the vast enemy camp.
You grip the banner of truce with both hands, raising it high above your head. The white must blend in with the snow from the rebels' position. You only hope the motion of the banner helps it stand out amid the background.
A knight on your right says, "Ya know, I thought they would'a shot us by now…"
The contingent breaks into a sea of snickers. "Hells, with my luck, I'd get hit first, even if they's be shootin' backward," the same knight says.
"It's 'cus ye're just so damn fat," a second calls out.
Without skipping a beat, a third jumps in, saying, "And ye're just so damn ugly."
"I don't think ye're the one to do the talkin'."
"It don't matter, do it? When we're inevitably shot dead, your ugly mug will look the same as mine."
The contingent, including the ones insulted, breaks out laughing. You yourself let a small smirk onto your face. There's no point in stopping these conversations. Such gallows humor is common among soldiers. When one is unable to comprehend death, humor is a form of escape. Every second laughing is a second not spent thinking.
Obren, not indulging in the lightness of the moment, calls out to you, "Marshal! We've got a rider!"
"A rider?" you ask.
"Yes, Marshal! Just one."
You bring your horse forward slightly, taking the furthest position in the front. There's a ripple of anticipation. In only a handful of minutes, the rider has made his way to your position. He pulls back on the reins, bringing his mount to a stop as he halts a healthy two yards away from you.
"You've some nerve, loyalist scum, darin' to ask for truce after attackin' our envoy!" the rider shouts. The line tenses up at the comment. You raise a closed fist, signaling for your men's silence and cooperation.
It does little to relax their repressed anger. Back in The War, that was the unofficial 'Shut up, the Marshal is thinking' gesture. You performing it would result in near-instant silence. But those men respected you.
These men hardly know who you are.
The envoy falters at your swift rebuttal, but then quickly recovers. "His rightful Majesty, King Rade of the Great House Mozoroff, sole sovereign ruler of Kanton, demands to know what your business is here!"
At this statement, a ripple of whispers fires through your contingent. Obren shoots you a glance, then shouts to the envoy, "Duke Rade has no claim to the crown of Kanton! He has yet to even be crowned, justly or not so!"
"King Belos hasn't been crowned, either, loyalist! Keep your lecturing for your whore at home!"
Obren grits his teeth. You shoot him another glance. Steady.
You cry back to the envoy, "I wish to meet with this so-called true king!"
The envoy replies, seemingly offended, "He will not meet with the likes of you!"
A grim smirk tugs at the corners of your mouth. "He will. Bring him this message: 'It's a long walk to Lanorlay.'" Those around you stare at you in confusion. Obren glances at you, eyes questioning.
The envoy hesitates.
You sigh.
"He'll understand."
Next
------
Rade dismisses the envoy and turns to face the small group of riders assembled those two hundred or so yards away. A smile spreads across his face, one that Rade quickly wipes away. He doesn't even know why he smiled.
Maybe for nostalgia's sake? Maybe because he's missed his comrade? Or maybe because of the memories that phrase invokes.
Rade sighs. He knew it. The Marshal is back. And the Marshal is fighting against him. Rade refuses to admit to himself just how much that hurts. He also feels a twinge of anger. So many of Rade's soldiers lie decomposing in front of those walls because of the Marshal's strategy.
Rade briefly considers just killing him. Setting all his riders and archers on him. Ending the threat.
But perhaps against his better judgment, Rade decides instead to hear his old comrade out. See if he can… bring him around. Rade wants to bring the kid back to his side, but this time, as his subordinate.
He likes the sound of that.
King Rade, with his trusty Marshal Arthur Hornraven at his side.
It's worth the risk.
Next
Twelve riders stare down twelve riders. All armored, armed, and ready, kept barely at bay by a flag of truce. Rade sits atop his warhorse, staring down at you, face unreadable behind his helmet. Your face remains unreadable behind your mask of stoicism. His armor, unlike yours, is the highest quality available. Steel plate reflects the winter sun as mail rests beneath, protecting from even the most powerful of threats.
Before the tension can burst, Rade releases the reins of his horse and swings himself off of it, landing on the ground with a huff. He approaches, closing the gap opened between your two lines.
You do the same, sliding off of Aurora and giving her a small pat on her flank as you approach Rade. Your hand rests on the hilt of your blade as you approach, carefully and slowly. Rade, watching you approach, reaches up to his helmet, pulls it free, and drops it to the snow.
Rade's black hair is left long, draping down just beyond the shoulders, in contrast to the short cut you saw him with in Krorid. He looks down at you with tired gray eyes. His dark-brown skin is calloused and scarred, multiple running across his face and through his short, well-groomed beard.
You close the distance, standing within touching distance of your old comrade. You are tall. This is indisputable. Even still, in front of Rade, he stands a handful of inches above you. Your gray eyes meet his gray eyes without fear or hesitation.
And then he moves, extending a hand for you to shake. His voice is a deep bass, both commanding yet easy at the same time as he says, "Good afternoon, Inae Dirriman."
Forgotten One. It's been a while since you heard that title. Darin dares not use it, knowing the implications it brings.
His hand lingers for an extra second before he retracts it and runs it through his hair. "Indeed." He studies yours. "Looks like you haven't grown it out since… you know."
A humorless smirk spreads across your face. "Yeah. I guess not."
An awkward silence settles in.
You stare. He stares.
No motion.
Rade, to break the tension, clears his throat and says, "It's been a while, boy." You make no outward reaction to his old nickname for you.
"Aye, gov'nor, it has." Rade smirks as you say this, hearing your use of old slang.
But the smirk fades quickly, replaced by a small frown as he says, "It is a… shame that we meet under the current circumstances."