The Corals With The Wifes Chapter 36 36

There's not much else to do at this banquet. For you, at least. Your place is not among the partygoers.

You doubt it ever will be.

After a few more minutes of relaxation, you glance back up and consider your next option.

I'm at a banquet, you realize. I'm supposed to relax.

You slouch back in your chair slightly, trying to think of the last time you fully relaxed. Perhaps it was in the bath, letting your sorrows and troubles sink away? Perhaps the conversation with Darin over a drink?

You sigh. Both of these times were interrupted or damaged in some way by your own damn thoughts. You can hardly obtain peace and relaxation, not just because of your responsibilities, but because of you. It's a sobering reminder of your own internal damage.

Your attempt at relaxation is interrupted by a voice from behind you, saying, "You all right, Marshal?"

You slide back into your chair, hand grabbing hold of your blade's hilt. You look over your shoulder, seeing the form of Sir Obren behind you. He's taken off the bulky mail shirt he often wears, replacing it with a more elegant doublet.

"That's probably a lie, but hey, it isn't my business," Obren says in reply, his voice still low and wry.

You look up at him and let out a weary chuckle. "God, am I that obvious?"

Obren pulls out the now-unoccupied chair next to you and sits down. "Who knows?"

"Keepin' secrets, are you, gov'nor?"

"You are too," Obren notes dryly.

"Fair."

He pours himself a mug of ale from one of the large casks atop the table. "Here's to mutual secrets, then." He raises his mug. Seeing this, you raise your own.

"Cheers," he says.

"Cheers," you echo.

You down the ale without trouble, but you notice Obren take one sip and then pull the mug away, grimacing. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smirk as he turns to you, saying, "Ale tastes like piss, Marshal. Ain't sure how you drink so much of it."

"Tell that to Darin, and he'll stab you," you reply dryly.

He snorts. "Yeah, he might." He pauses for a moment in thought, and then continues. "Oh, speaking of Darin, he sent me to check on you and tell you that he's okay."

"I appreciate it, gov'nor," you reply. Obren waves a dismissive hand. "Nah, don't bother with the thanks. Jus' doing my job."

With this final comment, the conversation lulls. Instead of trying to awkwardly revive it, Obren seems content enough just to sit and observe with you.

After nearly a minute of sitting and observing the banquet, he chuckles to himself. You glance over at him. He turns to you in his chair, saying, "Ya know, Marshal, I was telling myself that I wouldn't stop and eat, but…" He trails off, eyeing the food in front of him.

"I'm gonna go get myself something and go mingle with our… company." He stands up. "You mind?"

You wave your hand dismissively. "Nah. Go ahead. I got other shite to do anyway."

"Right." Obren stretches his back and begins to walk away, saying over his shoulder, "Good speakin' with you, Marshal."

"Aye."

The knight walks away, once again leaving you alone.

There's not much else for you to do inside the hall. All the key pieces here have been accounted for.

But there's more pieces to be accounted for outside.

You're not too bothered to be leaving. Parties have never been your scene, after all.

Once more unto the cold. You glance toward the feast one final time. With a sigh, you once again subject yourself to the cold and snow.

If the men can do it, so can you.

------

Darin is sitting in the corner of the warehouse, concealed by the shadows of the dimly lit room. The fire pit in the center casts an orange glow throughout. The heat is heavenly.

His fingers ache like the devil. The redness around the knuckles has yet to leave, no matter how much he rubs the warmth back into them. He wonders if the frost has truly claimed them.

Hands unsteady, Darin continues to observe, count, and write. Every stroke of the pen burns like the devil, a product of both age and the frost. It's been a mere few hours since the army reached Salutis, but Darin's quickly downed several mugs of ale. His head burns, possibly with fever.

Or drunkenness.

But Darin's own personal health has long since stopped mattering to him. None of the pain is relevant anymore. If the pain helps the Marshal, so be it. If the pain saves but one more of the young men in front of him, so be it.

It will all be worth it in the end.

Darin focuses his vision on a particular group, primarily because of the unpredictable wild card that sits among them. That damned prince.

Darin is still unaware of what the disowned kid is going to do. He pulls the scattered, fleeting threads of his drunken mind together, pulling himself to full lucidity for a few moments.

The effort required is immense, but it will all be worth it in the end.

The prince stands up among his comrades by the fire. Darin squints and leans forward, attempting to hear the words more clearly. The parchment, containing the updated census, slips forward off of Darin's lap. He mutters a curse but makes no attempt to retrieve it just yet.

Vedran's voice raises, loud enough to reach Darin's ears. "He sends more of your brothers out to freeze and die! He steals you from your homes, and then refuses even more of you refuge!"

Darin frowns and mutters, "The hell's he on about?"

"Why do you follow him? Why do you follow our so-called queen? This is not our war!" Vedran shouts.

Darin chuckles to himself as he reaches down to pick up the census. The prince has a shit ton of nerve, appealing to the common folk like that.

Before Vedran can continue, the door of the repurposed warehouse, directly to the left of Darin, creaks open, attracting the attention of the present assembly.

A man's voice calls from the snowdrift…

You step into this repurposed warehouse, the heat of the fire washing over you, once again reminding you of the warmth of Castle Salutis. This warehouse was only a minute's walk from the castle proper, but even that was enough to set the chill back into your bones.

Your brother is standing up, silhouette contrasted by the orange flames behind him. Around him, sprawled over makeshift beds, lie the exhausted forms of four dozen soldiers. The warehouse, despite being mostly emptied, has hardly enough room to contain two dozen, much less four dozen.

Illness may spread in such cramped conditions. That is, if any plague-bearers were strong enough to survive the journey.

Vedran turns toward you, face unreadable in the low light. "I…" He pauses to collect himself. "Do you require something, Marshal?"

On yer right, moron," you hear Darin's voice mutter.

Caught off-guard, you turn toward his voice, hand drifting to your sword. Upon seeing the man, you relax.

"There you are," you say.

"Unfortunately," he replies.

"I'm never happy to see you," he deadpans.

You chuckle. "Damn right. But I'm the only one who visits you, so you're stuck with me."

"Unless I kill myself."

"Which is a fair reaction to being stuck with me for the rest of your life," you deadpan in return.

He sighs. "I am much too drunk to deal with yer horseshite, lad."

You take a step closer and pick up his empty tankard. You raise an eyebrow and ask, "Just how many of these have you had?"

"Fuck if I know. The fact I's even remember that I's downed them is proof it still ain't enough."

You discard the tankard to the side. "I'm relying upon you for a census, and you're drinking your damn soul away."

"I never had a soul to begin with."

Darin chuckles. "There ain't much of me left to kill, lad."

"You're just making the jokes about how old you are for me."

"I's guess I am," he replies.

Darin goes quiet, contemplating something in his mind. After a moment, he pulls down on your shoulder, bringing your ear to his mouth. He whispers, "Careful, Arthur Hornraven. Watch your brother. Sleep with one eye open."

You pull away and nod. Your eyes lock onto Vedran, still crouched by the fire. His back is to you, as if to deliberately avoid your eyes.

You turn to Darin and say, deliberately loud enough for your present company to hear, "And get some rest, old man. You're gonna work yourself to death."

Quickly catching onto your ruse, he replies at the same volume, "Yeah, yeah, lad. I'll get you the new census in the next few days or so. Once the rescue party gets back 'ere, of course."

You step over the outstretched legs of soldiers as you approach the center of the room. The heat from the fire grows in intensity the closer you get. From your position, you scan over the faces of those present.

You're not surprised by what you see. Truthfully, you had expected something as such.

But it still hurts to see.

A man, one entire half of his face swathed in bandages, stares impassively into the flames. Dead flesh sloughs off, frostbitten and ruined. Another without a nose. Another missing an arm or a hand or his fingers.

The more lucky look like ghosts, gaunt and frozen to the bone. Some have the telltale blotch scars of the Pox. Others are the deathly white of Consumption, bound to die in the next few hours or days.

You notice your half-brother, Vedran, having moved to the corner of the room, seemingly to hide from you. You meet his eye, and he looks away. There is fear on his face, barely visible in the dim light.

You turn your focus back to the common soldiery.

There's a pause after your comment. A weary stillness. After a moment, a single soul breaks the silence, saying, "That they did. Tasted like horseshite."

A second soldier calls out, "It don't surprise me you know what shit tastes like."

A third interjects from his sleeping roll, "Nah. Shite would taste better than that gruel. Probably smell better, too, aye?"

A fourth opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a low, incomprehensible moan. You glance toward him with concern. Seeing this, the second soldier says, "He's a'ight, Marshal. It's the opium, you see? Had to get one of his ears cut off, he did."

Another man comments, "He had two, he'll be fine."

Laughter rings out around you.

You say, "Careful on the opium, boys. Too much of the shite'll fuck you up. Combine it with some ale, and you may drop with a couple sips." You know what too much can do to a man. Images of Cadarn's face flash through your mind.

The fourth chuckles to himself in a fit of lucidity. He looks up and into your cunning eyes. You see the place where his ear once was. You see the sores on his face and the awful discoloration of his skin.

"There ain't much of me to let die no more."

Two days have passed since your entry to Castle Salutis. The census, as of yet incomplete, can finally get underway once again.

Now that the rest of the army made it back.

You weren't entirely sure if they would survive. Not all of them did.

You observe from atop the gate of the castle's courtyard as the beleaguered regiment returns home. It appears to be quite smaller in size to the group you sent out, and the composition seems completely different.

You sent out huntsmen and levies. Maybe half of those men returned. In their place are the richer, better equipped nobles and riders that were lost on patrol.

Directing these new forces from atop horseback is Milon the nobleman, proving his survival. Among the wounded and the freezing is his sister, Lada.

You watch the army enter from atop the walls, motionless and expressionless. The unspoken cost has been shown, the true burden of leadership revealed. As you watch, you know that your choice condemned even more men to die.

But it saved maybe just as much.

Was it ultimately worth it? You don't know. This unknown, this constant nebulous feeling of what could have been weighs heavily upon your shoulders. How many families curse your name for stealing their fathers?

How many would have survived had you not issued the order? How many more would have died?

You sigh.

There's nothing you can do now.

Seven days since your arrival at Salutis have passed. Any men who have not reached the small castle town have been pronounced dead. Darin has been hard at work, overseeing the census and administering it to the troops.

You're standing inside a guest room at Salutis, looking out the window upon snow-covered fields. The sun is shining today after a week of nonstop gloom and storm. You sigh.

A knock on the door behind you draws your attention. Darin wordlessly enters. The look on his face makes your heart sink. He extends to you a roll of parchment.

You take a deep breath and unroll the census.

"Easy, Arthur Hornraven," he says gently and takes a step closer.

You press your lips into a thin line. Darin limps further into the room. His disheveled appearance betrays an evening of drinking. Perhaps he burned his demons away last night.

"Darin, fuck me, we haven't even fought Rade yet," you say in disbelief, chuckling halfway through.

"Yeah. We's haven't. But… we will. And, I ain't gonna fuckin' sugarcoat this for you…" He swallows hard. "It's gonna get fuckin' worse, lad. We's hardly started. Thousands more are gonna die, kid. Probably more."

"I know," you say, words hollow. Your whole body feels hollow. You feel hollowed out, turned inside out, and left to die. The shards that chip off your stone heart have begun to pierce your body from the inside.

A thousand souls gone from this world. And it's your fault.

As if reading your mind, Darin says, voice still gentle, "It ain't yer fault, Marshal." That damn gentle voice. As if he was speaking to a scared animal. As if you're the one who needs pity. As if you're somehow more important than the thousand or so lives extinguished in the snowdrift.

But you've already accepted that you're an awful human being. You've already accepted the fact that you deserve to die a thousand times over in the place of the innocent boys you led to the slaughter.

You link your hands behind your head and blow out a breath, attempting to calm down.

You notice your mistake too late.

Darin's eyes narrow as he scans your arms. You quickly pin them back down to your sides. He takes a step closer to you. Through an exasperated laugh, he asks, "You take a fall, Marshal?"

You nod. "Not even sure when, but yeah, they got cut to shit."

Darin nods to himself. "Strange place to be cut from a fall, ay?"

"I've been cut in places stranger," you say. In your sea of lies, this is the one small piece of truth.

"Yeah," he replies with another small chuckle. He hesitates for a moment, deeply considering something. His eyes meet with yours as he asks, "Arthur Hornraven, yer… yer not cuttin' yerself, right?"

You look at him with false confusion. Your mask of lies is already there again, in place and ready to hide the truth. "Why would I cut myself? I ain't sick, gov'nor. I don't got blood to let."

"Not bloodletting, ya idiot, I's talking about…" He takes another step closer.

The old warrior takes a deep breath. He jerks a thumb to his left shoulder.

"Trust me. I's been through that fire before, Marshal," he says. "If… if ya need anything, I's here for ya, lad."

He nods to you, slowly, his eyes studying your face.

After a moment, he motions for you to follow. His voice is still low and gentle as he says, "We's need to meet with Ciril, Marshal. Replace… those we lost."

"We're… we're levying more?"

"Yes."

"So more will die?"

"Yes."

You chuckle grimly and shake your head slowly.

Even Darin chuckles at that. "Yeah, I know how it feels. Hell, I's once swore to God I'd never go back down."

"Guess we're both liars, then," you reply. But not even Darin knows just how much you lied to him.

He nods and chuckles again. "Ain't just us, lad. It's all of us."

"We's all sinners and assholes, lad, all the way to the top."

The war room of Castle Salutis is much smaller than that of Wrido's.

Elya is sitting in front of Baron Ciril, with you on her right. Darin leans against one of the walls, resting his limp and listening in on the conversation.

Standing on Ciril's right is his second son. Behind him, in full plate and mail, stand two of his professional soldiers, halberds in hand. Their helmets are outfitted with movable hinges, allowing them to push the visor of their bascinet up and out of their faces.

The sun finally shines in through the glass windows, illuminating the room and glinting off the plate of the two guards.

Elya clears her throat. "So, baron, I assume you know why we're here."

You shift your weight on your feet, preparing for lengthy negotiations. You no longer have enough troops to resist even a quarter of Rade's army.

Baron Ciril nods. "I suppose I do."

There's an awkward pause. You glance over to Darin, who shrugs. After a moment, the baron says, "I suppose you wish for me to supplement your damaged army."

Your sister replies, "Indeed."

"I hope you'll forgive me for being… reluctant. I have, after all, provided immense care to the health of your men already. The winter has not been kind on our food stores, and yet we so graciously shared it with you."

A pregnant pause fills the room.

"What?" Elya asks, clearly caught off guard.

You cringe. Any sign of weakness will be seized upon by the enemy in any kind of confrontation, social or physical.

"You weren't expecting me to do all this for free, were you?"

"I am your queen," Elya replies indignantly.

"Of course, Your Majesty, but that does not make one immune to debt."

Elya verbally stumbles for another moment, but then recovers and asks, "What do you ask of me?"

"I propose that, in exchange for my continued support, you would accept a proposal to marry my second son."

Before Elya can reply, you take a step forward. "Your Majesty, may I speak to you outside for a moment?"

She glances up at the baron. The baron, with a wave of his hand, gives her permission.

You exit the room with your sister, leaving Darin inside.

Elya lets out a long sigh. "The audacity of this man."

You glance around the empty hallway, making sure you're not being eavesdropped on. Darin will make sure the baron isn't doing so from the inside. Content, you turn back to your sister.

"Aye, that was bold of 'im to ask."

Elya crosses her arms and rests back against the stone wall, next to the door. "What… what should I do, Arthur Hornraven?" she asks quietly.

"Firstly, gov'ness, we gotta think. Technically, as our vassal, he's bound by contract and tradition to provide us a tax of some of his men and money. We could force his hand," you reply, moving to lean against the wall next to her.

She snorts. "Clearly, he's not of that opinion."

"Nah… but again, we could force him."

Elya, after a moment of thought, asks, "What would happen if I accepted the marriage proposal?"

"Do you want to get married?"

She shrugs. "Not really."

You nod and continue. "Depends on the contract. By it being his second son, odds are he's just trying to get a relative in a position close to the monarchy."

"Would it… help us win? Win the war?" she asks.

"Yeah, it'd probably help," you admit. "But remember, we're dealin' with a baron. He's not capable of providing too much support anyway. We're pushin' to the southwest for a reason, gov'ness."

You hesitate, then add, "And, well, your… lack of a husband makes you a great asset. If you're gonna, marry someone with more power."

"So… what should I do… now?" she asks.

Elya releases a breath. "Thank you, Arthur Hornraven. I really couldn't do this without you."

No, you couldn't, you think. But you say instead, "Nah, don't mention it."

You motion to the door. "Shall we?"

She sighs. "We shall."

The room seems to have remained unchanged. The baron sits where he sat, his son stands where he stood, and Darin continues to lean against the wall. The two armored soldiers remain in their previous places.

"I'm glad you've returned," the baron replies.

Elya sits down in front of him. You reclaim your spot on her right.

"Have you considered my offer?"

"The queen and I have discussed, and we are unable to accept," you say, taking over negotiations from your inexperienced sister.

The baron nods. "I will not deny that this does cause me grievance."

You reply quickly, "Your grievances are irrelevant to this conversation."

"Excuse me?"

You ignore him and continue. "Your bloodline was awarded this fief by the Stiedry line. Under your feudal contract, you owe her reinforcements."

Ciril leans forward, meeting your cunning eyes. "Have I not given enough to your army?"

"By the contract, no."

The baron replies quickly, "And if I refuse?"

"Then your contract is null, and therefore these lands will no longer belong to you."

Ciril lets out a long sigh. "Fine. Your armies will be reinforced. But then you will get the hell out of my lands."

"I can live with that," you reply flatly.

He extends a hand to you to confirm the deal.

You shake your head. "I'm no monarch."

He shifts his offer over to Elya. She shakes his hand.

And the deal has been concluded.

A day has passed since your encounter with Ciril. His staff, and the baron himself, have been much less… hospitable after your negotiations and insistence upon levying his populace.

You're standing atop the walls of Castle Salutis, looking down upon the village. The moderately sized village, contrary to that of Wrido, has an edge that is clearly visible. While Wrido stretched on for seemingly forever, only constrained by its ancient Ravarian walls, this village is small and compact.

However, they will be levied all the same.

The cycle repeats, the wheel turns, and the harvest continues. A harvest of men and souls. The freezing chill of the barren winter seems fitting for your situation.

Sir Obren, the knight, stands to your left, leaning over the edge of the battlements, gazing down upon the souls below. He says to you casually, "Ya know, Marshal, this is actually my first time in a war."

"I'm not much younger than you are, Marshal," Obren comments.

You pause and think about it for a second. "Yeah, I guess you're not." You shift your position and lean further. "But God, do I feel old."

He chuckles. "I've always been told to embrace youth while you can. But, eh, bit difficult when we're fightin' our best days away."

"Which begs the question," you say. "Where did you learn to fight?"

Me?" he asks.

You nod.

"It ain't much of a story, Marshal. I was orphaned a while back, taken in by the state. I was made a page, then a squire, then a knight."

"You're damn good for havin' no combat experience."

"I did, technically. Lots of practice," he says. "But yeah, you're right. My mentor always said I had a knack for it. Knight Traicho was his name."

He chuckles to himself and glances over at you. "It's unfair, no? The way life deals us our cards. I was born a prodigy for war, and well, I guess I had no other choice but to be a knight."

You nod and glance over at him.

Obren smirks. "Yeah, that it will."

After a moment, Obren starts the conversation back up, saying, "What about you, Marshal? Where'd you learn to fight?"

"In The War," you reply.

"Before that."

You sigh. "I was taught to read when I was still a royal. Got some more lessons when I was studying as a page. Then an old knight named Cadarn was named my mentor. I was trained as a squire until The Border Wars fucked that plan to hell."

"You miss squire life?" Obren asks.

"Do you?"

Obren replies without hesitation, "Hell no."

Obren nods, but suddenly his focus is captured by movement in the village. He looks back up at you and says, "Looks like Darin's gettin' started. We'd best get down there."

You glance over the side and watch as Darin rides his horse, Ashka, into town accompanied by a small collection of soldiers and the hunter Velinor.

"Aye," you say and stand back up straight.

As the two of you begin to head for the nearest staircase, you say to Obren…

"For?"

"Just talkin'," you reply.

"Nah," Obren says dismissively with a wave of his hand. "It was nothin'."

"I still appreciate it."

"Again, it was nothin'. Truly."

The two of you head down to the village in relative silence.

The buzz in the air is excitement more than anything, which makes your blood boil. Of course the inexperienced would be so naive. So blind to the true horrors of what they will face.

Many children cry. The wives of those leaving weep as well. But the men, the men seem shockingly eager. Eager for adventure, for glory, and ultimately, for loot. The universal factor in woman and man alike is the desire for wealth.

Darin is standing atop a makeshift stage, alongside a supervisor from Baron Ciril's staff. Velinor is at the base of the stage, alongside ten or so levies, acting as enforcers to maintain order among the undisciplined peasantry.

A long, disorderly line of levies, equipped with whatever arms and armor their household owned, stretches far out into the village. Houses surround you and the stage on all sides, leaving you feeling oddly claustrophobic.

Elya, the girl queen, walks on your left, or more accurately, you walk at her right hand. Obren walks at her left. Glancing around, you notice the distinct lack of a professional bodyguard for Her Majesty. Such is unsafe, and less importantly, improper.

Upon seeing their queen, however uncrowned she may be, those around begin to point. Whispers begin to circulate. Eyes of children peer through windows or doorframes, gazing upon their monarch.

Elya glances to face those who are her subjects. After a moment, she holds a hand up into the air in greeting. The whispers only grow.

Darin turns from his position onstage toward your approaching trio. You exchange a subtle nod. He kneels down and mutters something into Velinor's ear. He nods and sets out toward your position.

The huntsman draws near and, with a nod of permission from Elya, falls into line on Obren's left. He shouts to be heard above the noise of the gathering crowd, "Yer Majesty! Captain Darin's set up fer ye inside the large house directly behind the stage!"

Elya shouts in reply, "I understand." She turns her attention to Obren. "Sir Obren, you are to remain under Velinor's jurisdiction." Her attention turns to you. "Marshal, you're with me."

All three of you answer in the affirmative, and only a few moments later, you reach the base of the stage.

Darin approaches the side and drops to one knee in order to have an easier time speaking with the queen. "Hail, my queen."

Elya says in return, "Greetings, Captain."

The Captain gestures to the large house on your right, only a few yards from where the stage is located. "Your Majesty, we's prepared a proper position for you and the Marshal to discuss. There's a desk set up on the entrance's immediate left."

"I appreciate it, Captain." A moment later, she adds, "Also, Sir Obren is under your command for the time being."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Darin replies.

Elya says, "In that case, the Marshal may lead the way."

After a final exchange of goodbyes, Darin separates from Elya to get back to his job managing conscription. You and Elya move from the stage to the house, stopping just beyond the door.

The house itself is no mansion, however it is larger than that of the nearby dwellings and much better maintained. The inclusion of real glass lands it solidly as a residence of the merchant middle class.

You pull open the door and gesture for Elya to enter. She gives you a nod and walks through. You do as well, shutting the door behind you.

A wave of warmth greets you. It's a welcome sensation in the winter chill.

You fall into place beside Elya, who has already begun to scan the interior. A long hallway leads from the entryway to a staircase at the far end, with two other rooms sprouting out from the sides.

A third room on your immediate left appears to be some sort of living area, where a desk and two chairs are set up in the center. The brick fireplace is lit, casting a faint, orange glow over the room.

Two soldiers, armed with swords and dressed in mail, their visors pulled up, hold position against the wall of the living room. They snap to attention upon seeing the two of you.

One calls out, "Her Majesty is present!" They move their right hands into a salute, raising an open palm into the space to the side of their helms.

Elya enters the living space, offering the two knights a nod. You return the knights' salutes, as is custom for military men. Their arms snap back to their sides.

Your sister claims the far chair. You take the nearest. Before you can get to business, the same knight shouts out again, "Your Majesty! May I present to you, the owner of this house, Cvjetko of Salutis."

A well-dressed man in the middle of his years stands in the doorway, accompanied by a younger woman of the same dressing, presumably his wife.

"Hail, my queen," the man says, dropping to kneel in greeting. His wife mimics him a second later.

"I appreciate you allowing us to… occupy this house of yours," Elya comments.

The man says as politely as possible, "It was no trouble to meself, Yer Majesty."

"And, good man, no need to bow to me in your own home," Elya says cordially.

"Yer Majesty?"

She smiles. "By all means, get back to your day, we will be out of your way in due time."

The woman at the man's side asks, "Would ye care for tea, Yer Majesty?"

Your sister shakes her head. "I appreciate the offer, but I've already taken up too much of your time and resources."

"It would be no trouble," the woman says.

"I insist," Elya replies.

The pair hesitates, not knowing whether they're dismissed or not. Seeing this, the queen says, "You are dismissed."

"Thank you, Yer Majesty," they both say before heading off down the hallway.

Your focus turns to the present soldiery. With a small salute, you say to the two knights, "Boys, you're dismissed. I have the queen from here."

"Yes, Marshal." The pair returns your salute and heads for the door, exiting and leaving you and the queen in complete silence.

Elya observes them leaving. Once they've exited, she releases a long sigh.

"There a problem?" you ask.

Elya smiles slightly and shakes her head. "Not one worth complaining about."

You raise an eyebrow. "Not even a bit?"

She chuckles and then sighs again. "It's just so… formal." Her gaze shifts to a window, then back to you, seated in front of her.

"But there is something I wish to ask you, though," your sister says.

"Hmm?"

She remarks with curiosity, "I notice you call the soldiers 'boys' a lot."

"And?"

"Neither of those knights were boys."

Why do you deflect?" she asks.

You raise an eyebrow. "Trust me, Ellie, I deflect a shitload, but that wasn't a deflection."

Elya hesitates, then asks, "Do you wish you could be done with war?"

You glare at her. "What's your problem, gov'ness?"

You're not even sure what your answer would be. Your life is war, there isn't anything else for you. Without war, there isn't a you. But you're not even sure if being dead is that terrible of an outcome anymore.

"It's just… well… you never talk about it. And I want to know my military staff." She hesitates, then adds gently, "And my brother."

Elya nods slowly. Her eyes are full of worry, and you roll your own. She has much greater things to worry about than your past.

You clasp your hands together. "Alright, gov'ness, let's get down to business."

"I'll be honest with you," she says, shifting in her seat and leaning forward. "I have no idea how to run a conscription. I'm no military man."

"Yeah, no shite," you say with a chuckle. "You ain't even a man."

She rolls her eyes at you, saying mockingly, "Ha ha."

You reach into the satchel attached to the belt of your trousers and pull out a slip of parchment. You unfold it and toss it loosely on the table before retrieving an ink and quill from the same bag.

"We're workin' on a limited budget, so to speak," you say. "This ain't crownland, gov'ness. We can't just conscript the entire male population from the village."

"Morbid," Elya comments.

Elya shakes her head. "Never mind. Just… continue."

You clear your throat and say, "So we need to be smart with who we conscript. Darin's out there… inspectin' the harvest, so to speak." The words burn as they leave, the way they so callously disregard life, turning men into numbers and lives into resources.

"An army, or well most, anyway, need a stock of infantry. It's the truth. We could also find the best of the best, or those with military experience to be added to the retinue."

"What about cavalry?" Elya asks. "I read they were essential to running an army."

You nod. "Only the soddin' rich can afford horses. And well, the rich are more…" You take a deep breath. "…finite than the soldiery."

"I see."

You nod again. "But you're right. Cavalrymen are damn necessary. But costly. The heavy ones will smash straight through the undisciplined. The lighter ones can run circles around 'em and skirmish up and down their line. Use them well, and you can destroy an army of infantry quadruple the size."

With a small motion of the hand and a chuckle, you say, "But good fuckin' luck reinforcing your cavalry reserves. Can't exactly train up a knight in a day, gov'ness."

"And archers?" Elya asks.

"Effective. Kanton's got good game, meanin' plenty of men know how to shoot a bow."

Elya nods to herself, absorbing the information.

You continue. "We need some kind of outline to give to Darin so he knows who to draft. I'll take this one, pay attention. I ain't gonna do this twice." You chuckle grimly and then add, "Hopefully."

Elya gives you a look of mild confusion at your final comment. You ignore it and continue your mad and tired cackling.

Chapter 36 - 36

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