You mentally note the apparent popularity of this Lada and move on.
You've already done enough thinking for today.
Next
The cold water stings your already cold skin, but it cleanses the mind.
You would gladly feel this physical pain if it lessens your mental pain. Your scabs itch. You scratch at them once again, feeling the scabs tear away and the wounds reopening.
That much greater pain helps center yourself further. You sit on the snowy riverbank and run your wrists through the freezing water, feeling the blood run away and the water stinging the cuts.
Water will help keep the Rot away. So would letting the scabs heal, but…
You run the nails of your right hand down your left wrist again. Your missing ring finger gives the cuts a strange pattern. There's two lines of cuts on the leftmost side, then a gap, then another line of cuts.
That's not counting those that are torn into your skin at strange angles.
You chuckle grimly at the sight of your own torn-up wrists. Cuts, barely breaking the skin, run up and down both arms. You're not sure why you're laughing at the sight of your own injuries.
But there's something that just makes you… chuckle. It's difficult to articulate what. Maybe the fact that you've hurt yourself more than Rade's forces. It's funny to your tired mind.
Was it this bad during the five years after The War? You can't remember. And that scares you. For some reason, the past is constantly present, yet unreachable and vague. It comes to you in nightmares and flashbacks that rattle you to the core.
Those five years… they were boring. But you didn't feel so burnt out all the time. Now, sitting on the damp bank of the river, knees pointed to the sky as you wrap your arms around them, you feel so utterly empty.
Your energy is burnt out. But your soul feels burnt out, too.
And your patience with yourself is draining.
Next
You're honestly more tired with yourself than you are with others.
But tired as you are, you're still always keenly aware of your surroundings. Old habits don't just die hard, they never die. Especially now that you're in a new war, you've yet to just calm down.
The chatter of soldiers to your left captures your attention. You tilt your head slightly, watching out of the corner of your eye as a group of four sits down in the snowless bank next to the Atiming.
Ale is poured, they give a toast, and then the drinking begins. The chatter is mostly unimportant, to you at least. They speak of loved ones, family, glory, wine, and as expected, women.
Such are the topics of rowdy boys far from home.
You tune them out for a while as you enjoy this moment of peace. But then you hear your title get spoken by one of the soldiers. And then again, the words in between are lost to your ears. You perk up, turning your attention and gazing toward the group.
The loudest and most rowdy one suddenly mellows. He says, loud but grave, "None of ya understand. The Marshal… he makes me uneasy, guys."
Most of those in the group seem to agree with this statement. One nods and says with a small chuckle, "No shite. He fought through the goddamn Border Wars as a boy."
A half-smile spreads across your face as you listen to the men speak of you like some terrifying force of nature. It appears as if your intimidation is working.
You've seen and heard enough. With surprising stealth, you make your way up the steep bank around the Atiming. You glance one last time out at the water and the men before turning and heading away.
You seek blessed rest.
Next
------
Duke Rade Mozoroff sits at a low table inside his command tent. A dense fog has settled over the area, stifling even the faintest glimpse of moonlight. In this darkness, Rade scans over the reports by torchlight.
His army has made camp for the night. Yet as the men make ready to rest, Rade and his chief lieutenant still have work to do.
The man sitting across from Rade is shockingly tall. Rade is tall himself, but this man still towers above him. With brown eyes so dark they nearly look black, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Cadarn.
"Vuk," Rade prompts.
His lieutenant glances up from the parchment to meet his eye. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
"How far out is Count Nado? We need to link up with his army before the snows get worse."
Vuk uses a finger to slide one of the parchments over to Rade. "This is the letter he sent us, Your Majesty. He's not ready yet."
Rade shakes his head. "I doubt it. He's stalling. In fact, I believe he's lost his nerve."
"You don't think he's going to make good on his promise?"
"I don't."
Vuk nods grimly. "What's the plan, then, sire? Shall we turn back to Wrido and lay siege again?"
"No. We simply don't have the supplies. And with the snow getting worse, a winter siege would be suicide." Rade picks a map up off the table and passes it to his lieutenant. "There's a fortress about… ten days march from here."
"This fortress, are the owners sympathetic to our cause?"
"They are. I had made sure they're sympathetic before I even attacked Sobik," Rade replies. "They're our contingency plan. Should the siege have gone awry, I would have retreated and taken shelter there. It has enough supplies to withstand a siege." He glances toward the darkness and snow beyond his tent. "Or shelter through the worst parts of winter."
Vuk nods again. "And once we're resupplied, sire?"
"We link up with Nado and hunt down the Marshal."
"Understood, Your Majesty. I can have the men ready to march come morning."
"Good," Rade replies. "Let's get out of this wretched weather."
Next
You climb back up the steep riverbank, brushing a layer of snow off your pants when you reach the top. By this point in the evening and this late into winter, the sun has long since disappeared below the horizon.
The chill in the air is much worse than before. Worryingly so. You rub your hands together for warmth and head back to your tent, which is set up toward the center of the camp, near the command tent Darin has been spending too much of his time in recently. But such is the nature of a war. Eight parts boredom, one part fighting, and one part unrelenting misery.
You glance up at the night sky, stars obscured by the gray clouds. You need to make it further southwest, and fast.
Despite the time and the cold, you don't feel tired. Physically, at least. You feel tired, but not sleepy. You have someone you need to talk to before you sleep.
Next
The two guards let you by without fuss. Thankfully, they were not asleep this time. Once the weather worsens further, you won't be able to leave guards to stand on duty for so long.
Most men will complain about being left on guard duty. But after a promise of increased rations, bonus pay, or even a cask of ale for their barracks, they've been lining up.
A little motivation goes a long way.
You press through the heavy fur "door" of the pavilion, immediately getting struck by a wave of warm air. Elya's tent is shockingly warm. The smoldering fire pit in the center and the heavy, high-quality fabrics of its construction keep it much warmer than any tent you've been in yet.
Warmer than your own, anyway.
Your thoughts scatter at the sight of Mira, sitting upright on her bedroll. She's leaning against the fabric of the tent, knees brought up to her chest. The fire in the center scatters shadows across the walls.
The young queen herself sits awake on her own bedroll, lost in the book resting on her lap. Mira sees you first. Looking up at you, she says, "Evening, bastard."
Elya, hearing this, snaps her attention toward Mira. She says, exasperated, "Mother… don't." Mira glances at her daughter, then her eyes close and a grim smile spreads across her face.
You ignore Mira's jab, not wishing to even waste the energy on her. You approach Elya, tracking snow inside. Mira frowns at the sight but quickly averts her gaze back to the wall, staring blankly.
The pavilion, however warm, is not particularly large. There's hardly enough room to skirt the small fire pit and the edge of Mira's bedroll. You crouch down next to Elya, making sure not to track snow onto her bedroll.
She asks, "Does something bring you here, Arthur Hornraven?" By the concerned look on Elya's face, she knows something is up. It annoys you how right she is.
Every time you visit her, you always bring bad news. Today is no different.
"Of-fuckin'-course you do. It's… it's always something."
This reaction takes you by surprise. "Ellie?" you ask.
Mira glances up from her spot, concern on her face. You try to ignore that look of concern. The look of motherly concern. The look she stopped giving you when she threw you to the wolves. The irony of you wishing for her to be concerned for you when you've told everyone else off is not lost on you.
Because you're a hypocrite, and you know you're a hypocrite. But now is not the time for you to pity yourself.
Elya closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When her eyes reopen, they're damp with tears. "It's always something."
You sit down fully, scooting up against the wall next to her. She carelessly throws the book onto the bedroll in front of her. You cringe at the sight of her mistreating such a valuable object and quickly pick the hefty tome up and set it off to the side.
Elya takes a shaky breath and asks, "What is it?"
No point in holding back further.
"Plague."
"Of course it is. Because… because why couldn't something just work out, right? Of course there has to be more and more and more bullshit!" Her voice continues to escalate until it's near shouting.
"Elya, that's enough," you say. But she ignores you.
Her voice escalates to full-on shouting. "Because Belos and Dad weren't enough, right? Now there has to be rebels! And plague!"
Your sudden snap silences the young queen. She looks up at you with shock and hurt evident on her face. The tears in her eyes threaten to spill over as a shudder runs through her body.
"You can't weep. There's no time. You're the queen, damn it. Act like one!" you say.
Elya replies, "But… they're dead!"
"And if you don't calm the hell down and focus, you'll wind up dead too."
It's harsh. Perhaps too harsh. But she needs to hear this. She needs to be a queen. And she needs to stop dumping all the responsibility onto you.
"You ain't a princess no more," you say. She looks down at her lap, tears now streaming down her cheeks. Finally, she meets your cunning eyes.
"Go."
The word catches you by surprise. "What?"
"Go. Now."
"Ellie—"
"No. Leave me alone."
You throw your hands up in frustration and surrender. You turn on your heels and make for the exit, a hundred different emotions battling for dominance in your damaged mind. As you leave…
You step out of the warm tent back into the darkness.
The night feels cold and oppressively lonely. Lonely?
You chuckle grimly, unable to do anything but laugh at how pathetic you are.
Such is life.
Next
You thought you knew misery in the jungles of Krorid. Truly, you did know misery. The misery of heat and humidity. Of men drowning in mud.
It's been two weeks since you spoke with Elya in her tent. You've passed out of the province of Stradford, finally. Wrido is now long behind as you push into the County of Utrye. Your only hope is resupply. The southwest can wait.
Because now the fury of nature has been unleashed upon your small army.
The snow pours down in sheets. The air itself hurts. It burns in your lungs with every breath. You can barely see a few yards in any direction. The rest of the world is drowned out by a sea of endless white.
Wind's howling, you think. It's blowing so hard, it nearly sounds like the cry of a wounded animal. You find the picture fitting for your situation.
Your whole body has long since gone numb. You rub your hands together and blow into them to generate what heat you can. It's nothing to your frozen body. You turn in Aurora's saddle toward Elya, who's riding on your right.
Velinor, now the unofficial bodyguard of Elya, rides on Elya's right. Darin rides toward the rear with the rest of the supplies and assistant quartermasters. You can only hope that your supply wagons will hold against the weather. Losing a single one would be disastrous.
All three of you are wrapped head to toe in whatever furs and winter clothes you could scrounge up. The chill still remains, but it's better than nothing. However, it's not just the cold, but the hunger. You feel weakness deep in your core as hunger eats away at your body.
You haven't eaten in three days.
You feel for poor Aurora, wheezing beneath you with every few steps. There's not much you can do for your increasingly disillusioned horse. It seems every time you ride her, you give her another reason to hate you.
But you feel worse for the soldiery.
Next
You call to Velinor above the howling wind, "Velinor! Watch Her Majesty! I'm going to check on our boys!"
All Velinor can reply with is a nod.
You flick Aurora's reins and ride off to the edge of the snow-covered path your army is marching upon. There's barely enough room for your horse to fit alongside the wide column on such a narrow path.
The sight you see makes you sick to your stomach.
The soldiers, rich and poor, young and old, trudge through the snowdrift. The biting wind muffles most, but you can still hear the constant, brutal coughing. You ride your horse next to the soldiery, hoping that your presence can provide some hope.
Soldiers die as they walk, falling limply to the ground. The snow is stained red with the remnants of lungs and bleeding, pus-soaked bodies. They continue to trudge forward, guided not by courage but by a primal desire to survive.
They do not wish to end up like their comrades, who form a trail that stretches on for miles. It's how progress is measured and gained; through the bodies and the blood of boys. Each mile of progress comes with this price.
Such is war, such is life.
Nebulous concepts such as "honor" or "glory" no longer matter when one is a week without food. When one feels the ice searing their fingers and face off. When one feels their lungs and skin melting to pestilence.
And they told us hell was warm, you think grimly.
Through the blinding snow, you watch the soldiers march, leaving the dying behind. Yet one man moves from one dying soldier to the next. He kneels next to the fallen for only thirty seconds at the most, then moves to the next.
At first, you think the man may be a scavenger, but then dismiss the notion. No battlefield scavenger would risk their life in this weather.
By the man's modest, hooded garb, you mark him to be a monk of the Church. You ride Aurora toward the man of God, yet he makes no motion toward you. You call out to him, yet once again he does not acknowledge your existence.
Perhaps he cannot hear you above the wind.
You suspect the monk has a reason to ignore you. He's clearly not dead, and clearly very focused.
You steer Aurora back onto the trail and continue to ride down your slowly moving line.
Next
As you rode, you subconsciously began to note the number of men you found dead.
You lost track at over a hundred.
Horses lie dead amid the snowdrift as well, frozen to death. You watch as what appears to be a nobleman stands above his dying horse, dagger raised. He plunges it down, ending the beast's suffering instantly.
He turns his focus away from the sight, and his eyes lock with yours. You notice just how lifeless he appears. His skin has lost color. His eyes appear bloodshot and tired. You wonder if you look the same.
And then he collapses to the ground, never to stand up again.
Your attention is torn by a voice shouting loudly, "Borek! Borek! Get o'er here!"
A pair of nobles atop their horses break from the line, maneuvering in between the gaps of the column. The exhausted, freezing infantrymen do not react.
These two nobles, wrapped in furs and cloths, are unrecognizable to your wind-battered eyes. But they appear to recognize you as a man's voice calls out, "Marshal!"
You recognize that voice. It's the voice of that one nobleman… Milon, if you recall. You didn't interact with the man much, but you did with his sister.
The other noble calls out in a distinctly female voice, "Marshal… we have a problem!"
It's the voice of that damned noblewomen. The one who talks to you funny. Who tries to touch and constantly giggles.
Milon rides his horse closer toward you. He's forced to near shouting in order to be heard over the wind. "Borek here just barely made it back alive. Half his patrol's gone missing." He pauses and studies the unmoving body of Borek for a second longer. "And… now he's gone, too."
Lada pulls her horse closer. "They won't last long in this snow! We gotta stop the column!"
"Lada, stay out of this," Milon says to his sister. She refuses to listen and only pulls her horse closer to yours. "We can't leave them to die!"
There's no stopping the column. You know this. Milon must know this as well.
You reply grimly, "If we stop, we all die. We're close to Castle Salutis. If we stop, we won't be able to move again."
"Then send someone after them!"
Milon glances toward the frozen form of Borek and his horse. He blows out a breath, visible in the freezing temperature. His dark-brown eyes meet your gray as he says, "I can take a group out. If you let me take a group of the healthiest men in your… retinue, I believe it's called, along with some scouts, I'll go loop back and look for 'em."
Lada says, "I'll go with you. They'll need a physician!"
"Lada—"
"I'm not gonna let you go alone, idiot," she says.
Milon sighs and looks over to you, as if to ask permission.
Lada replies, relief evident in her voice, "Got it, Marshal."
Milon glances at his sister, then back to you. "Lada and I will head north for a quarter mile and then loop back 'round."
"Take half a thousand men at the most. And be swift."
Lada asks her brother, "Should I go pack my supplies?"
"What's there to even pack?" he replies.
"I's get some wine and a… hacksaw. Bandages, too."
"Pack up, then. We leave in fifteen minutes," he says.
"Aye, Your Grace," Lada says, shooting you a wink as she uses your southwestern slang. You give no reaction in return.
Lada turns back around on her horse and sets out for the supply caravan. Milon, with your permission, sets back toward the column and begins to draft troops for this perilous task.
Perhaps he's bribing them with promises of wealth or ale. You're sure the pockets of Kanton can spare the expenses needed to satisfy a handful of young soldiers.
You say to Milon just before you turn to leave, "Be quick. If there's any chance your column will get lost, retreat. It ain't worth it."
"Yes, Marshal," he says.
You offer a final nod and turn Aurora around, bound for the head of the column.
Nothing else for it now.
Next
You're relatively sure it's only been an hour. But in the snow and in the fierce, fierce cold, it feels like days. You no longer look back toward your column to watch the dead.
It hurts too much to look at.
The wind has not died down. But at least your body has gone numb, and the cold doesn't sting anymore. Your rear now hurts from the hours in the saddle, though the pain is numbed somewhat by the cold. You're not sure whether the numbness is good or bad.
Velinor still maintains his position to the right of the queen. He's been relatively quiet this whole trip. The cold has only intensified this.
Elya, for what you think is the first time today, shouts above the wind, "Arthur Hornraven, shouldn't we have reached Salutis by now?"
"What?"
"Yesterday you said we were four miles out. Typical army marches at twenty miles a day, right?"
"Yeah," you reply, a bit surprised at her knowledge.
She lets out a sputtering cough and wipes away the snow building up on her face. You look at her with concern. "I's fine, Arthur Hornraven. Just inhaled some snow."
"For your sake, I hope you're correct."
The queen rolls her eyes at you. She gets back on topic, saying, "We're sick. We're cold. So maybe ten miles a day. Probably five."
Velinor comments from the sidelines, "Ten is damn generous, Your Highness. Five at the best, methinks."
Elya nods. "Even if it was only two, shouldn't we… have seen the castle by now?"
"It's a damn blizzard, Ellie."
"Watch the roads," she says. "They're dirt, right? But the right side had been paved for a stretch. It pulled off down that way." Elya points to your right, into the whiteness of the blizzard. You suspect that's west, but without the sun visible, it's difficult to tell.
Then the realization dawns on you. Velinor breaks down into howling laughter. It is the laugh of a tired, beleaguered soldier.
You overshot the castle.
It took nearly thirty minutes to turn the column ninety degrees. When the maneuver was completed, you set out straight and veered off of the main path. The light patches of forested ground made it difficult to keep pace.
After trudging through snow for another twenty minutes, you finally found the road again.
Now on the proper road to Salutis, you and the rest of the army are filled with a renewed vigor. The blizzard still pours snow down on your beleaguered army, but at least you're moving in the right direction.
Just a few more—
"Arthur Hornraven?" Elya asks from beside you. Her sudden comment tears you from your thoughts.
"Yeah?"
Even with the wind, you can hear her question clearly. "Why are you here?"
"Care to elaborate?"
"With me. Why are you helping me?" she asks. Her tone is low and unreadable. You can hardly hear her voice with the wind. But you heard the question.
You don't have an answer. Because you don't have a reason.
You've been fighting for Elya and doing her duty out of habit. You became the Marshal again because you had nothing else to do.
But now you're in charge. And you're still with Elya. You're still supporting her.
But you love her. You… tell yourself. But the frustrations are mounting.
How long can you keep yourself under her weak thumb?
How long until you shatter?
But then your thoughts disperse and scatter to the cold and wind.
Now is not the time to ponder such things.
Next
The walls of Castle Salutis are small compared to those of Wrido. But staring at them from below, you and your army beleaguered and frozen half to death, they seem massive.
They will provide you salvation. They will provide shelter.
You can finally exit the cold.
You press your horse forward, approaching the edge of the castle's moat and scanning the battlements for any observers. In the harsh weather, you can't see much of anything.
But what you can see is the stirring of the populace around you. The large village surrounding Salutis has been awakened by the presence of your dying army. Peasants watch from inside their modest dwellings, sheltered from the snow and chill.
You cannot tell to what extent you are surrounded. This army has always been smaller, and the pestilence and weather have only thinned the numbers further, not to mention the fact that a large group was left behind to search for the lost patrols. There are dwellings and buildings on all sides of you.
You feel more exposed than protected. The sobering feeling puts you on edge. But your adrenaline has long since crashed, leaving you feeling more tired than before.
More tired. More cold. More empty. Your whole body aches with hunger and exertion and cold and pain. Your eyelids feel heavy. Each breath is labored and slow.
Your hands can barely hold onto the reins anymore. Glancing to your right, Elya looks to be in much the same condition. You can only wonder how the common soldier without access to your wools and furs must feel.
So close to salvation, but so far.
Next
Ten minutes pass in the agonizing cold before the drawbridge drops, providing passage over the moat. Looking down at the ice-cold water, you shudder internally. Any man who falls into that would go into shock immediately.
And would be dead in seconds.
A mounted man rides forward to meet you. Behind him, a vanguard of armored troops form a tight line at the mouth of the drawbridge.
The man calls out, loud and clear, "State yer business!" The strength in his voice proves that he hasn't been in the snowdrift for as long as you.
Elya opens her mouth to speak to the man, but your own reply cuts her off. She glances toward you. You avoid her eye.
"Royal?" the soldier asks, craning his neck and looking over your army. "Ya don't look some 'royal army.'"
Velinor snorts at this comment. You say in reply…
"I's not sure what yer talkin' about," the soldier replies.
You shake your head in frustration. "Can you just fetch your damn lord? We're freezin' to death out here."
He nods and says something back, but his reply is lost to the wind. You raise an eyebrow, but the man has already turned around, riding across the drawbridge.
You're trapped outside of the walls of Salutis.
Next
The warmth fills your body and cleanses your soul. It feels like nothing you've ever felt before. Knelt in front of the fireplace, you rub the sensation back into your fingers. The color starts to return to your flesh. The sensation of feeling sensation is intoxicating.
You rub your warmed hands on your cheeks, feeling the sweet, sweet warmth.
I hated the heat in Krorid. You chuckle to yourself, earning a few glances from the nobles present in the great hall of Castle Salutis.
It seems everything reminds you of Krorid and The War. You can't even think about freezing to death without being reminded of Krorid. You can't even think about the heat without being reminded of Krorid.
You sigh and stand back onto your feet, scanning the room. The great hall of Salutis is quite the large structure, with a high, vaulted ceiling and enough room for multiple banquet tables. It's not as large as the hall in the Wrido palace, but it is large nonetheless.
The tables are currently being set. Food is being prepared for the hungry nobles and the rich who managed to survive the journey. The poor and levies are left outside of the castle.
There's just not enough room.
Next