It is more complex than most typical cadences, and it's one with a… complicated place in your heart. You learned it during The War from the Kantonian volunteers.
You feel an unexpected pang of nervousness. You don't want to sing in front of people. But you know it's not even really a song. And you're not really singing, but rather speaking the words with force.
But you still feel this pang. You ignore it and continue anyway, shouting, "In cadence! Repeat, 'Left, boys, left' after each line!"
A response of "Yes, Marshal!" rings out, though disjointed and weak, the men focused on marching. You ignore it. There's time to fix that later.
You take a deep breath and recite the first line:
"My moth'a told me before I left!"
"Left, boys, left!"
You fight a mad grin from spreading across your face. It feels like The War again. The good part of The War. The camaraderie. Songs sung by the light of a fire. Ale spilled and bets made.
You cry out the next line, already joined by some of the men under your old command, specifically some of the decani.
"'Best keep to farmin',' but then I left!"
"Left, boys, left!"
The cadence is specifically designed so that when the word "left" is sung, or rather shouted, the left foot touches down. It keeps the men in sync practically subconsciously.
"Ya told 'er nothin' 'fore ya left!"
"Left, boys, left!"
"Kanton's a'callin' and so ya left!"
"Left, boys, left!"
"God knows we ain't stayin' an' so we left!"
"Left, boys, left!"
"Hell knows we're comin' because we left!"
"Left, boys, left!"
You call a second column left, the centuria responding with improved quality. Not a single man turns left immediately, saving the centuria from folding in on itself.
With a small, genuine smile of pride and accomplishment, you give the order to halt.
They're getting better.
Next
Hours of training later, Obren stands beside you, watching as you run a rag over your head, wiping away the sweat from your brow. With a satisfied huff, you lean back against the trunk of a leafless oak. From your position, you can see the three hundred slowly disperse from the training grounds.
The young knight lets out an appreciative whistle. "Job well done, Marshal. I gotta say… I'm impressed."
"Humble," he remarks sarcastically.
You glance over at him with an exasperated look, and he just chuckles lightly.
That is now the second time he's let his guard down around you and actually laughed. You find it strange that this is the setting that he's most at ease in.
But then you realize it's the same setting that you're the most comfortable in.
Strange.
You hear someone approaching from behind, footsteps crunching on the freshly fallen snow. Obren hears it too but is subdued in his reaction. You, on the other hand, spin around, hand half-drawing your blade.
The man before you makes you internally sigh.
Vedran crosses his arms, an amused look on his face. "Were you planning on running me through, brother?"
"Maybe you should just calm down, brother."
"That's rich," you reply.
He sighs and shakes his head. "Can I ask what I was coming here to ask?"
"Well, that depends on what you were gonna ask."
"Well," Vedran says, "I was going to ask if you would… accept my apologies?"
You raise an eyebrow in suspicion. Obren's jaw practically drops hearing this as he glances between the two of you. Before you left Wrido, he had refused to even speak to you. But as soon as you left, he became oddly enthusiastic.
This offer, however, is new.
Vedran says, offended, "I'm being serious."
You stop and look up at him in bewilderment. "Wait, what?"
"Is this truly so amusing to you?"
"You can't be serious."
He looks at you, clearly hurt. There's a glint in his eye. A glint of pain and of burning, burning rage. You tense up.
"I see how it is, Marshal."
Obren clears his throat and steps in, sensing the tension. "How about you two go your separate ways, yes? Before someone…" He makes a big show of glancing at Vedran. "…gets hurt."
"Yes…" Vedran says. "I had to speak with Sir Obren anyway."
You glance back and forth at both of the men. After a moment, you shrug, turn around, and walk away.
You need a splash of cold water.
Next
------
Obren waits until he watches the Marshal move out of earshot before he turns back to the man whose very presence fills Obren with fond memories…
And immense discomfort.
He turns to Vedran, who stares out into the distance, expression clouded and tired. But there's a small smirk on his face that slowly grows. Obren knows this smirk.
"What's your game, Vedran?" Obren asks.
"Hmm?" Vedran suddenly snaps back to the present.
Obren continues. "Apologizin'? You? I don't buy it for a fuckin' second."
Vedran just sighs in response. "Why does everyone have constant suspicions of me?"
"Because you're actin' suspicious, you moron."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yeah. And I'm gonna go tell the Marshal if you keep doin'… that."
"Fuck me, I guess, right Obren?" Vedran asks rhetorically, voice escalating. "Fuck all that we did together. Fuck all that we were, right? Just so you can go suck up to that fucking bastard."
Obren allows a smirk to spread across his face as Vedran continues his tirade.
"You betrayed me," Vedran says.
"Betrayed? God, you really are dramatic. And petty, too."
"Can't you give me any bit of sympathy?"
"You don't deserve any."
Vedran pauses, hesitation flashing in his voice. His eyes lock with Obren's. He says, voice low…
Obren snorts. "Yeah. And I shouldn't have been."
"You regret it?"
"Guess," Obren deadpans.
Vedran glances down, hurt. Obren turns away from the spurned prince, looking out into the snowy forest. "Of course I fuckin' regret it. I thought you would'a gotten the hint by now."
"You never told me why," Vedran says.
Obren shakes his head, still staring wistfully, remembering better times. "I don't owe you a response. And I never owed you my friendship."
"No. That's not it. You're casting me away to go and suck up to that… that bastard," Vedran says.
Obren chuckles and shakes his head slowly. "Of course you say that. Always jumpin' to the worst in people? Sounds like you're projectin', friend."
Vedran ignores this and continues his own tirade. "The bastard's not even the one in charge! My sister is! I… I should have been, but my bitch of a father—"
"Shut up. Just shut up. Stop trying to rant to me. Stop tryin' to use me as your rock. I already told you."
Obren speaks the next words clearly and carefully, making it clear what he's saying. "I. Am. Not. Your. Friend."
"You can't… even just… listen to me anymore?"
"No. I won't listen to you. I never should have trusted you. So I'll make up for my stupidity now. I should have never listened to you. So, I won't. Never again."
With this final statement hanging in the air, Obren strolls away, leaving Vedran alone.
So utterly alone.
The prince closes his eyes, a tear running down his cheek.
All of those who he once loved or looked up to have died or abandoned him.
Vedran wipes away the tear in disgust. He clenches his fists as he watches the form of his once-best friend walking away. The friend he saw almost as his own brother.
Through the pain, a single thought fills his mind. A single, destructive thought.
They will all pay.
Next
You've become acutely aware of every cough in the camp around you. Each time a man complains about a headache or a rash, you grit your teeth and avoid them. They may soon be dead.
You idly wonder if this supposed wrath of God will destroy your army before you even encounter Rade. You need to get southwest, faster than ever. The warmth may help the afflicted. Villages further down will hopefully have remained untouched by rebel forces, allowing you to gain levies and supplies.
But the snowdrift is deep, the winds fierce, and the men now sick.
You're tired of being responsible all the time. Of being the Marshal.
Of being a commander.
Of being a mentor.
Of being a friend. A rock. The one to be relied upon.
Because you can hardly rely upon yourself.
You sigh, feeling just so utterly tired. You're here. You're in command. You're back again. But now there's this… pestilence.
You just want a break.
As you walk through the noble section of the camp where the rich and knighted stay, toward the center of the sprawling campsite, Elya's tent catches your eye. The thing is as luxurious as a tent could be. But still, Mira had the gall to complain.
Complain as others do not have tents. Complain as others freeze in the snow, coughing their lungs up.
You were baffled at first. Mira wanted to join the army? Her motive is unknown to you. She remains inside her daughter's tent most of the time. Two guards stand watch at most hours of the day.
The tent is placed alongside the other important pieces of the camp. What baggage and supplies the army managed to drag up are pulled in carts, stored here in the center for protection. Other "important" noblemen and their families radiate out from the center.
Your patience can only last so long. It fades like the sun. The first signs of twilight now grace the sky. You've been training for quite a while.
Mercifully, the queen dowager is not in sight. She most likely resides behind the fabrics of the tent, sheltered from the snow and Pox while you freeze among the sick.
You sigh.
It's a different noble that catches your attention.
It's that damned noblewoman, the sister of that duke. She's standing amid a group of other noblewomen, gathered around a cooking fire, speaking and laughing. Tents, warm and rich, are lined up in rows. Their horses graze on what grass they can find, some covered by warm furs to prevent the beasts from freezing.
There's a general sense of levity and excitement among the nobility, particularly in Lada's group. She must be with the rest of the camp followers. Presumably among a group of soldiers' wives, she speaks with casual ease, bringing the crowd to laughter, again and again.
These followers scattered among the nobility's tents, along with the tents of the normal soldiery, are the camp followers. They're the civilians that follow the army. Some are necessary, others are… less so.
It is a diverse group, made up of the families of soldiers, opportunistic prostitutes, blacksmiths, artisans, educated men, and much more. They're similar to leeches. They steal the money and supplies of the soldiery, while slowing down the army and using its food.
But also like leeches, they perform an essential service. Just as a leech cleanses the blood of the sick, followers improve morale and maintain equipment.
It's a precarious balance.
Your focus snaps back to Lada's display. You watch this display for another second…