Elya asks flatly, "Arthur Hornraven, I don't know what that means."
"Nor do I."
She rolls her eyes. "Fine. You win. This time."
"Good. So you'll stop being a prying bastard?" you ask.
Elya sighs. "I cannot promise such an act in perpetuity."
Such formal language catches you by surprise. "Ya know, the diplomacy is over now. You can talk normally."
The queen laughs. "Brother, when I'm around you, it feels like the diplomacy has just begun."
Next
Hours have passed since your plan for the conscription was drafted up. The late-winter sun has struck the horizon, casting its dying light across the sky, partially concealed by the clouds.
There's no rain falling from the sky, only your blood falling from the walls. Your scabs have been torn back up, blood leaking from these reopened wounds. You had never really kicked this habit. You just didn't have the time when you were too busy attempting to not freeze.
But now, without the immediate threat of danger, your mind has time to wander.
Honestly, you're not even mad at yourself for starting the cutting back up. You had long since accepted that you would, it was just a matter of time. And now, with a long, drawn-out sigh, you look upon the damage to your wrists. The sigh is more of annoyance than of pain.
Annoyance primarily at yourself. Annoyance underlined with intense self-hatred. Because you hate nearly every aspect of yourself. You hold this explosion of fury and hatred, at yourself, at the world, deep within you. You will not break today, nor tomorrow.
But you will at some point.
It's only a matter of time.
Next
This callous acceptance concerns you, but you don't care enough about yourself to do anything about it. You know that your self-hatred is unhealthy, and some subconscious part of you admits the cutting is unhealthy as well, but you don't want to stop it.
You don't particularly care.
So you continue to make your excuses. Ultimately, that's what your whole life is: excuses. Excuses to yourself, and especially excuses to Elya. You acknowledge this with a grim chuckle. Lately, all you can do about it is laugh. At yourself, at your situation, the world—all of it.
Watching the blood run from your wrists, you let out another grim chuckle and wonder to yourself, Why am I doing this?
And so your mind rushes to answer to itself, as it always does.
Why would someone care for someone so terrible? Part of you desires some sort of attention, some sort of affection or concern. But the overwhelming majority of yourself cannot even comprehend why someone would care for you.
There's so much more to care about, so many others that deserve happiness and love before you. In fact, you believe that you don't deserve happiness. Perhaps you deserve all of the pain you've had.
Perhaps the punishment is fate. Perhaps it is cosmic, the work of a higher power. Perhaps it's just damn bad luck.
You're left spiraling, answerless, without direction or purpose, full of nothing but a maladjusted psyche and a mind full of hate.
One can only spiral for so long before they destroy themselves.
Next
The army is on the move. Ten days have passed since conscription concluded. Goodbyes were said, and now you've moved seven days' march south of Salutis. The air is still cold, the roads still coated with a thin layer of snow, but the blizzards have ceased and the plagues have mostly burnt themselves out.
A current of hope has struck the army and spread like the pestilence had previously. You wonder how long this hope will last after the first engagement. Perhaps their first real taste of blood will only feed the bloodlust within them.
Victory and loot are the driving factors in an army's motivation. And as of yet, neither has been achieved, so the army is running on cautious optimism and raw excitement alone.
A whole swath of opportunistic peasants, not even conscripted, have decided to join the army as well. They sell goods and services, while others others sell…"services." Your group of specialists has been restored by your stop at Salutis.
You ride Aurora on Elya's right, Velinor on her left. Obren rides somewhere toward the center, while Darin takes up the rear. It's a standard formation for a standard march.
You sent out a screen of mounted scouts earlier. Other than a light early-morning fog, visibility has been excellent.
The Atiming River flows on your north side, the choking Atiming Forest finally thinning. While there's still a distinct treeline, it's no longer an impassable barrier.
It's an important day for this river. In half a day's march west, it shifts dramatically north, no longer running toward Krorid, but rather toward the Kanton-Loston border in the west.
Once you hit this turning point in the river's direction, you need to direct the army sharply to the southwest. From there, you know to keep moving until the weather warms and the humidity increases, and to find a road junction to follow all the way to Lanorlay.
Krorid awaits.
Next
Shouting from ahead draws your attention. Bursting from the treeline is a lone rider. In a single smooth motion, Velinor nocks an arrow, draws it, and aims it at this new threat. You hadn't even realized he kept his bow strung when he traveled.
The man rears in his horse, placing his hands in the air. In a hoarse voice, he cries, "Stay your bowstring! I'm one of ya!"
The huntsman lowers his bow and slides the arrow back into his quiver.
The man, exhaustion written across his face in sweat and evident pain, approaches you. His mount is in worse shape than he is. "M-Marshal," he gasps between breaths, "we's got company up north!"
You exchange a concerned glance with a wide-eyed Elya. You ask the scout, "What kind of company?"
He pulls up besides you and points at a spot beyond the treeline. "There's a large column, maybe seven thous'n strong, pushin' southward. They's bound for the Atiming crossing."
You nod. "Understood. Head to the rear of the column and get some rest."
The scout responds in the affirmative and sets out for the rear. Elya asks you, "Arthur Hornraven? What are we gonna do?"
"Secure that damn crossing," you reply. "We can't let 'em get over with that many troops, or we're fucked."
The queen nods and then asks aloud, "How the hell did Rade find us?"
Velinor chuckles. "Who said it was Rade, Yer Majesty?"
Next
------
Count Nado of House Kramar rides at the head of his column, keeping a steady pace. He departed his cities over three weeks ago, but was trapped in the snowdrift for days. Now free and moving, he hunts for this new queen's army.
Mozoroff asked him to link up, join their forces and move together, but Nado ignored him. Nado is part of this rebellion, but why should he listen to Rade? If he captured this upstart queen and her "Marshal" before Rade did, nothing could prevent him from naming himself king.
Greed motivates each command and step.
Next
Your army has now been moving at a forced march for two hours. This back-breaking pace weighs heavily upon the untrained, inexperienced levy. However, it's not only taking a toll on the soldiery, but also your sister.
Velinor is clearly unaffected by the change in pace; if anything, he seems to be enjoying the sudden excitement. You yourself are unaffected as well, being fit and experienced enough to comfortably keep this pace for hours.
Aurora, on the other hand, may not be capable of such a feat. The previous push through a snowstorm sapped most of her strength. But she'll just have to survive.
You glance over at Elya, clearly still struggling.
"Asshole," she mutters but says nothing further. The queen must be in too much pain or exhaustion to say much.
You glance behind you at the men further down the column on foot. Those poor bastards don't even have a horse, and so they are practically jogging while burdened down by their equipment and provisions. There's no way you can keep this pace up for much longer.
Fortunately for them, you won't have to. The treeline finally peters out, revealing the sprawling flatlands. You can now see the point where the Atiming redirects to the northwest. This place is much thinner than the rest of the river. This is the crossing you've been rushing for.
Off in the distance, perhaps a mile and a half away, you can see a large column pushing south. The snow has soaked the ground and packed the dust down, eliminating the normal effect of the massive dust clouds that often follow these armies.
Against a backdrop of white snow, they stand out even further. But much closer, only perhaps a half mile from the crossing, is an advance column of thirty riders. They move at a rapid pace, much faster than your own, bound to claim the crossing before your much slower army.
Velinor sees this, as well. He meets your eye.
Next
You say to your sister, "Elya, you need to keep the column moving."
"What?" she asks, confused.
"Velinor, we need to move," you say to the huntsman.
He replies, "Marshal, I'll go gather us some guys."
You nod. "Get the lightest riders you can."
"Ain't my first hunt," he says with a chuckle. "I know what I'm doin'."
He sets out down your line. Elya asks again, "Arthur Hornraven… what is going… on?"
"They got a vanguard. We need to stop 'em from claiming the crossing before we do."
"And… you're going with them?" she asks with concern in her voice. You hold back a groan.
"Except… I'll be down an advisor…" She swallows hard. "And another sibling."
You sigh. "Listen, kid, I'll be fine. I've done this a hundred times."
"An arrow doesn't care how experienced you are."
"I am well aware."
Elya sighs. She knows better than to argue with you.
You weren't going to change your mind anyway.
"Just… don't get yourself killed."
"I won't," you say.
Next
The column, under Elya's command, has slowed back down to a standard march. You, Velinor, and fifteen of his hand-picked mounted troops rush forward from the column at full speed.
You unstrap the shield from your saddle and slide it onto your arm. You pull your spear out of the leather straps holding it against the side of your horse. Your armor remains in your bag at your horse's rear.
Your other troops are much in the same state, unarmored and underprepared. And, compared to the thirty or so vanguard troops, woefully outnumbered. But you're closer to the crossing, and with your faster horses, are bound to reach it first.
The treeline has long since ended and no longer conceals your vision, giving you full sight of the enemy army approaching. While the true size of your army is concealed by the trees they're still marching against, the enemy approaches from the forestless north without concealment.
Their thirty riders are roughly three hundred yards out. You are only two hundred out.
It only takes you another thirty seconds to reach the crossing. You rear your horse in and stand triumphantly at your end of the crossing. Velinor rides up next to you as your small group of fifteen fans out to secure the area.
But the enemy does not stop.
Next
You glance at Velinor. He glances back at you.
You have only another half a minute before the enemy is upon you.
You shout to the troops with you…
Your riders obey immediately, lining up in a loose formation at the edge of the Atiming. Each man selects a rider in the distance to shadow and prevent their crossing.
While the river may be thinner here, it's still roughly twenty yards wide and nearly three feet deep, and the Atiming isn't exactly known for being calm. This should help disrupt their charge and allow your unhindered men to pick them off.
As the enemy contingent of thirty reaches the edge of the crossing, Velinor raises his bow and nocks an arrow. Once they take their first steps into the Atiming, he looses, striking a rider in the arm.
The enemy soldier lets out a cry of pain, audible even above the rushing of the river and the hooves of the riders. He attempts to turn around to retreat but only collides with his own comrades. He's knocked from his horse into the death trap of hooves and water below.
A second arrow claims the lead cavalryman, cutting deep into his throat. A third strikes an enemy in the unarmored leg, pinning it to his saddle. Despite his own cries of pain, he pushes forward.
The thirty have reached the center of the river, the momentum from their previous charge now completely gone as the water reaches the bellies of their mounts. They urge their horses forward, but the beasts have been exhausted from their sprint.
It is in the center of the river that their horses refuse to move.
Next
Velinor continues his assault of arrows. Panic breaks out among the contingent. They fold in on themselves, as some continue to push forward and others push to retreat. You watch as the enemy accidentally knock each other from their mounts in their confusion.
All the while, Velinor seizes upon their panic, raining arrows down upon them. Another two fall.
After the assault and panic, only eight or so riders continue their attack. The rest have either fallen dead in the Atiming or retreated. You take a deep breath, adrenaline coursing through you as an enemy rider rushes up the bank of the river toward you.
A soldier rides up on your left. You exchange a small nod.
And then the rider clears the Atiming and surges forward with the strength only a desperate man, convinced of his own imminent death, could manage.
You rush forward on Aurora, spear in hand. Your assailant thrusts out with his own spear, embedding into your shield. You flick your arm to the side, dislodging the spear before thrusting forward again.
It strikes the top of his helmet, deflecting off but unbalancing the rider. The soldier with you whips his hatchet in a circle above his head before bringing it down upon the enemy.
Stunned from your blow, the rider is unable to react in time to save himself. He turns to face the hatchet at the last second, letting out a cry of panic that is quickly silenced. His lifeless body tumbles limply from the saddle.
Up and down your loose line, scenes like this are repeated. A fierce but swift melee ensues between your group and the remaining enemy riders. Once the dust settles, three of your riders lie dead, but the enemy is repulsed.
Only those who turned to flee before the river managed to survive your riders. The rest have been killed without exception. Your men showed no mercy.
The first blood has been spilled into the Atiming.
Next
Six hours have passed since your encounter at the river. The enemy column has set up camp roughly four hundred yards from the bank of the Atiming. You've deployed your own camp roughly one hundred yards from your side of the river.
There's a buzz among the camp, a buzz of excitement. The men are ready to kill, simple as that.
Pavilions and tents have been set up in a loose formation. Campfires have been set up as well, heating the men and the rations they packed for the trip. The banners of both armies fly high into the sky along with the setting sun, clearly visible against the backdrop of snow.
You listen to the distinct, nostalgic noise of a campsite preparing for battle as you stroll through it. There are men talking, eating, and drinking before it all. There's the distinct sound of grindstones sharpening their blades and axes, and armorers preparing the armor of those who can afford it.
You can make out the distinct, almost chant-like sound of many men in prayer. Mass and confession services are being held universally. The soldiers wish for a promise of absolution before they go out and kill.
Purify the soul before coating it in blood.
Next
You've been placed into a precarious tactical situation. This new army is a threat you have yet to account for. Rade's army is still out there, out there with their new weapon yet to be fielded before.
You cannot continue south without allowing this army to cross as well. It would most likely pursue you right after, or worse, link up with Rade. If you're forced to flee, the enemy might run you down if they have the cavalry advantage.
You cannot push north over the Atiming without being destroyed. But the same goes for your enemy. Your force is significantly smaller, but you're well-protected by the river. If you abandon the river, you abandon your advantage.
But you can't hold here indefinitely. Eventually, you must make it to the southwest. If you continue to hold position, you will eventually starve, or Rade's army might group up with that of this new army.
And your soldiers are not mercenaries. They're peasants. They need to return home for the autumn harvest. If you miss too many harvests, Kanton will be plunged into economic ruin and suffer imminent starvation.
Your only hope for this war is to make it to Krorid, form a large force of experienced soldiers, and smash Rade's army in one crucial battle. But you can't move to Krorid without sacrificing the river.
You sigh in frustration. The only way to comfortably move southwest is to defeat this army here before Rade arrives.
It's one big mess that you need to deal with.
Next