Chapter 4 - Fresh Blood
The practice sword arcs down toward your own. With a quick flick of the wrists, you swing it around, avoiding the strike and countering with a blow to the knuckles.
"Fuck!" Elya shouts, dropping her weapon and clutching at her bruised hand. She quickly brings it to her mouth, sucking on the injury to ease the pain.
You lower your own wooden sword with an exasperated sigh.
"If this were a real duel, you would have killed me regardless," Elya replies, still rubbing her bruised knuckles.
"Fair," you admit. "But you still gotta not… do that."
Elya sighs. "Yeah, I know. It doesn't make it fucking hurt less."
You raise an eyebrow at her harsh language, which she promptly ignores. She says, frustrated, "You know that I can't do this, right?"
"Not if you keep givin' up every time I hit you."
"Don't… hit so hard, then!"
"I'm sure your future opponents will oblige you," you deadpan.
Elya hangs her head and laughs good-naturedly. "You're right. I'm just…" She sighs. "I…"
She trails off, just staring into the distance. Her body shudders slightly, and you're sure it's not from the wind. "Ellie?" you ask, taking a step forward.
Elya draws in a deep breath of the chilly air, recentering herself. "I just miss Dad. And Belos. And when… all this…" She shakes her hands in front of her, a gesture of nothingness. "…horseshite wasn't happening."
"Listen, if you don't want to swordfight… we don't have to."
"No," she says, determined as she stares at the ground, eyes taking in nothing. "We do. Because… I have to. I'm tired of bein'… weak." Her eyes lock onto yours, suddenly filled with a fire you've yet to see in your sister. "Rade will pay. Pay for what he did to Dad and Belos. They're… gone… and I…"
She trails off, the fire suddenly being replaced by a deep, entrenched sorrow.
Elya looks up into your eyes. "How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Keep moving on."
You shrug your shoulders. "When you've seen so much death… it just stops meaning anything."
"Death doesn't hurt you anymore?"
Boys lie emotionless on Wrido's walls. Their lifeblood flows, staining the stones, as their eyes stare unflinching into nothingness.
And it's my fault.
"No, it doesn't," you lie. You lie because you can't stop. Why tell the truth when a lie works just as well? Why try and make Elya understand when you can just continue your facade of stoicism, pretending like it's all okay?
It's always worked. Even if the… pit is growing. You suddenly feel very aware of the scabs on your wrists. They itch.
"Then I need to be more like you."
You chuckle, low and grim. "No. You don't. You're better than whatever mess I am."
"What do you mean, better than you?" Elya asks, her voice suddenly suspicious. This ability of hers to detect whenever you're starting to get personal is uncannily accurate.
You just shake your head, deflecting the question. "It's not important."
And then she gives you that look. A look of concern… and pity. You hate pity. You hate being pitied. You're a person, not some object to be worried and doted over.
"Elya. Enough," you say, voice low and calm. This only makes her concern grow. She opens her mouth to reply, but then snaps her jaw shut and averts her gaze back to the ground. You turn around and quickly bend over to retrieve your shirt from the snow.
Next
You stand back up, preparing to redress before heading to the rest of the camp. Suddenly, you hear a man's voice call out from behind. "'Ey, kids, y'all done yet?"
You spin around, already sliding your shirt back on. He says, "It's fuckin' freezin' Marshal, keep yer goddamn clothes on."
"What I do with my shirt is the business of myself and those in my immediate area," you deadpan.
He replies in the same dry tone, "Exactly. I's happen to be in yer vicinity, lad, so keep yer shirt on."
Velinor rounds the corner a second later, asking, "What's all this talk about shirts?"
At this, Elya starts laughing, followed by Darin. You smirk slightly as Velinor glances around, confused. He sighs, shrugs his shoulders, and mutters, "I was jus' askin'. Ye're all dicks."
Elya breaks down into another fit of laughter as Darin gives him a hearty pat on the back.
After a few moments, Elya says, "I'd think it'd be best if we got back on track."
"Yes, Yer Majesty," Darin says with shocking formality. Suspicious formality. You and Velinor, in sync, turn toward Darin with confused expressions. Darin continues, "I jus' need to borrow our good Marshal for a small while. Would it be okay with yerself if I left Velinor here as a bodyguard?"
Elya smiles and nods her head. "No trouble at all, Captain." Maybe she enjoys the formality? You know this can't be true. She was always tired of the customs of the court. Maybe after dealing with you for so long, Darin's lack of insults comes as a breath of fresh air.
"Don't worry, Marshal, I's got the prin—queen. Go on with Darin, will ye?" Velinor says, patting the hilt of his sword.
You nod and head after Darin, Elya calling out her goodbyes as you do. Darin shrugs a shoulder, motioning for you to follow.
"Walk with me, will ya, lad?"
As you walk beside Darin, your thoughts begin to drift…
The army is now a whole week out from Wrido. You've been moving at a brisk pace as you move down to the southwest. You know it's imperative that you reach Krorid before Rade does. His potential offer to them could prove… appealing.
Leaving the army in the city was out of the question. The city simply doesn't have enough supplies. And Rade's army is still lurking around there. Perhaps other lords loyal to his rebellion are, as well.
This may prove an excellent opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Recruit the Kroridians and put down rebellion before it can fester. And the fields of Wrido will have much better options for foraging than a city on the brink of starvation.
But despite your best efforts, supplies are already running low. The farmsteads around Wrido have already been picked bare. Right now, your camp is set up in the ashes of what appeared to be a hamlet, the residents inside having long since turned to bone. Tents have been set up, fires have been lit, and traps have been laid.
You can only imagine how poorly the city must be faring. It has many times the number of souls to feed, without any chance of forage. You had left a fairly sizable garrison behind—including many of the sick and wounded.
You doubt Rade will strike the walls again. Not with winter so rapidly approaching. Not after lifting the siege so close to a victory.
You're more afraid of the people inside the walls. The coming chill will take a toll on them. Perhaps a greater toll than it will take on your army. At least your soldiers have a chance at resupplying themselves.
You shake your head to clear your thoughts.
The garrison will have to keep order until your return.
Next
The Atiming River stretches alongside the camp, running further southwest. Follow it, and you know you'll reach Krorid. You pass by a small group of soldiers fishing in the ice-cold river with spears. They hardly notice as you pass by.
The camp is forced to be compact. The river cramps you against a forested patch to your north. A quarter of the camp spills into these woods, and another quarter spills into the wide road that runs along the Atiming.
This organized chaos of tents, fires, and men is familiar. Nostalgic. It reminds you of the good times during The War. The air is filled with a hundred aromas and sounds. Men cook food, sharpen weapons, laugh with each other, drink with each other, and just live. Life, even in war, must continue on.
The men seem to drift together based on class or location. Most of the noblemen and knights who were with you at Wrido stick together. Many of the retinue do, as well. You hear the names of villages you've never heard of and loved ones you'll never meet.
You glance over at Darin and comment, "It's weird to be back."
"Yeah," he replies simply. His focus is on the soldiers around you. You both notice just how young they all are. Many could barely be considered men. You know that even less have any skill with a weapon.
You need to get to the southwest before Rade does. If he gathers the veterans before you do, it would be disastrous. It's a delicate balancing act, trying to maintain the loyalty of this army as you force them to brutally march in the dead of winter to gather a new army.
To maintain loyalty, you've…
It wasn't that hard to garner fear and dread. Your intimidating appearance already kept them on edge. All it took was a few instances of shouting and getting in the faces of the most proud. They folded quickly.
It's a start.
"'Ey, lad, ya feelin' okay?" Darin asks.
You shrug. "I'm fine. Ain't great, but hey, I could be worse."
Darin shakes his head. "Nah. I'm talkin' physically. Ain't been sweatin', er achin'? No rash? Any bloody cough?"
You shake your head. "Can't say I have."
"Good," Darin says.
It suddenly clicks in your mind and you ask, "Are you talkin' of Consumption?"
"Not just Consumption, lad, the Pox too. Both been spreadin' 'round the army for a while."
Oh, fantastic. You groan and ask, already expecting the worst, "How bad is it?"
Darin chuckles grimly.
"Bad."
Next
You've grown an intense distaste for numbers during these recent months. You squint and bring the parchment closer to your eyes. Sir Obren is leaning against the table, watching your expression intently. Darin sits on a stool in a corner of the tent, arms folded.
The table is wood and collapsible, draped with parchment full of numbers. The damned numbers. Multiple shelves full of more parchment and records sit toward the rear of the tent, while candlelight illuminates the table.
With a sigh, you set down the report in your hand. Three hundred suspected infected. "Fuck."
Darin chuckles at your reaction, while Obren nods soberly. "Proportionally, it's not much of our army. But it has the power to spread. And it will spread."
"What's your prediction, gov'nor?" you ask the knight.
Obren purses his lips into a line as he considers for a moment. Finally, he says grimly, "It's difficult to predict this sort of thing, Marshal."
"Well, that's helpful," Darin remarks.
Obren turns to him and replies bitingly, "I don't see you offering suggestions, Captain."
Darin stands back up from his stool, wincing slightly at the rapid movement on his bad leg. "Ya want some suggestions? Well first, we let the army know. It'll cause some panic, yup, but it'll let 'em know to look out for the signs."
Obren shakes his head. "Telling the army will make them think the situation is out of control."
"Is it not?"
Obren sighs. "Not yet, it's not. We need to keep the groups separated. Keep our nobles away from the levies. Consumption kills the poor man. Odds are, the rich never caught it during the siege."
"Oh, nice. Class supremacy, then, aye? We's jus' leave the poor folk to die 'cause of their birth then, Sir Obren?"
You glare at Darin. "Enough, Darin. Let 'im speak."
Obren lets out another exasperated sigh. "It's pragmatism, not this… classism you claim. The cavalrymen are more effective than the infantrymen." He shrugs. "I'm just speaking the truth."
Darin is clearly pissed, but he ruffles a hand through his hair and blows out a deep breath, trying to calm down. He then glances up to you. "Your call, Marshal."
You take a deep breath and say…
Darin barely represses a grin. "Do tell, lad," he says, genuinely intrigued by what you have to say.
"We divide the army into smaller groups, keep them livin' and marchin' with each other. Nobles, too. So when the disease starts to spread, the pockets should keep the contact contained."
Obren speaks up. "The miasmas could spread beyond the pockets, Marshal."
"The miasmas spread from bodies and the infected. Keep the bodies burned and the infected away. Better than nothin'."
Darin nods. "I's say it's the best option we's got."
Obren just says flatly, "Understood, Marshal. I'll begin dividing the groups."
"Nah, I'll handle that," Darin says with a wave of the hand. "You's two best get over to our retinue, start preppin' for the next trainin' session."
Obren shoots you a glance as if to ask for permission. You shrug. "No problem with me." Obren, hearing this, offers a slight bow of the head and turns around to exit the tent.
You turn to follow him, but Darin says, "Wait, Marshal!" You turn back around, and Darin offers you another piece of parchment. You sigh at the sight of yet more papers to read over.
"Here's the census of the army. Might wanna give it a look over, aye?"
"Aye, I'll hold onto it."
"Good. Now run along, lad, Obren's waitin' on ya."
You exit the tent, returning to the snow.
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