You awake to a stinging pain in your chest. Your eyes fly open as you sit up instinctively, a cry of pain leaving your lips. Your cry is silenced as your skull makes contact with that of someone else.
A burst of stars flashes through your vision. You sit up once more, your eyes falling upon the form of a haggard old man, clearly an Erisian, dagger in hand. Blood is running down your chest. Blood is pumping through your heart. Blood mixed with raw adrenaline and primal panic.
Despite the near-debilitating pain, you lunge for him. He lunges for you. There is a struggle without strategy or technique, just the brute strength of the desperate. You let out an agonized cry for Darin.
The man is old, much too old to be on campaign. You don't think of his reasons for being here in Krorid. And you'll never learn them. You are a healthy, fit, sixteen-year-old. Despite the wound, you overpower him.
The dagger falls from his hands. You spring upon him, pinning him to the ground. One of your knees presses against his chest. The other pins his left arm to the ground. Bone crunches beneath you.
You raise your fist back, and in a moment of pure, animalistic desperation, you slam it upon his face. The bones of his face shatter beneath your fist. He cries out in pain, but you strike again and again.
The entrance of your tent flies upon. Darin rushes in, despite the awful wound he received in his thigh three months ago that still has not healed. Seeing the sword in Darin's hands and the hate in his eyes, you fall backward onto your rear.
In a flash of steel, Darin's blade severs the man's head from his shoulders.
You stare at him.
Soaked in the blood of yourself and your enemy.
Next
You hobble against Darin for support as you exit your tent. Your wound is bleeding quickly. You look down and feel panic set in upon seeing your shirt is now almost fully soaked with crimson.
You were too lazy and tired the night before to take off your coat of plates. If you had, the blade would have pierced your heart and killed you instantly. Instead, it deflected off of a plate, penetrated the fabric of the vest, and bounced off your sternum.
As you exit, you come to realize you weren't the only victim. Even in the poorly illuminated camp, the moonlight being choked away by a canopy of greenery, you can see the other bodies being pulled from their tents by their comrades.
"Don't look," Darin says, trying to shield your eyes, but it's too late.
The dead are mutilated, faces unrecognizable. Down below, their dignity is as well, a final humiliation to those who are slain without honor.
But the monsters didn't get you then.
And you won't let them get you now.
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You won't be those poor sods.
With the horrific memories once again brought to the surface, you decide against sleep for now. Instead, you crawl out of bed and retrieve your bastard sword. You turn to face the entrance. You unsheathe your weapon.
It is almost therapeutic to sharpen the blade. Each slide of the whetstone produces a loud ring. It is rhythmic and satisfying. A motion you have full control over. One that helps clear your mind.
Almost like cutting yourself.
You frown at the thought. Maybe this new motion could be a more… healthy alternative to cutting. But it doesn't provide the same emotional catharsis. It doesn't sate the need to punish or damage.
But this night is not one you will indulge in such a habit. Frankly, you don't have the emotional or physical energy for it. With a shrug, you continue to sharpen your blade.
It takes you almost two hours to calm back down and stay your weapon once again. Finally, with immense effort, you will yourself to rest.
No dreams haunt you.
A mercy in this time of hardship.
Next
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Many miles away, the revolutionary reenacts the same mad dash the Marshal had made only a few months earlier. Through weather and through exhaustion he rides, covering immense amounts of ground in the handful of days he's been riding.
Rade feels an immense sense of isolation. He feels utterly alone, riding southwards across the snow-covered plains of Kanton. His lieutenant, Vuk, rides alongside him, but the man's silence offers Rade little company.
They stop at the occasional rural hamlet or estate to resupply and take quick breaks to catch their breath. Most of the peasantry are unaware of any war even happening. Information travels slowly.
For rest, all he has to do is flash even a single silver denarius to any man with room in their home. The promise of real, non-perishable cash is enough for shelter, no questions asked.
But now, through the dead of night, forty hours without sleep, he continues to ride. The damn fool Count Nado is trying to fight the Marshal's army without him. Even outnumbered, Rade knows he has the experience and battlefield knowledge to bring Nado to his knees.
Nado is a fool, anyway, coasting off his family's involvement in the Crusade all those years ago. Maybe at one point, his family would have been useful, Rade thinks. But now? Now he's a liability.
Everyone else seems to be a liability to the revolutionary. Except himself and Vuk.
Even subconsciously, Rade hardly acknowledges the girl queen. She's irrelevant. A loose end. She is to be killed or otherwise stripped of power. And the Marshal is her power.
Such are the thoughts that drive him further. He wishes to end the war faster. And the only way to do so is to reach this new battlefield. The plan is in motion, but the architect of said plan is many miles away.
Rade prays he will make it before it all comes crashing down.
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Morning comes, as it always will.
A report comes early in the morning, interrupting your peace.
And your breakfast.
Darin has already set out the construction crews, as well as the foraging parties. He wanted to give you an extra two hours of sleep, rather than wake you up for basic tasks.
You quickly put on your mail hauberk and coat of plates. Your plate greaves remain in storage, as well as your gauntlets, and you attach your helmet to your belt. Your sword is sheathed and daggers stowed.
With your gear ready, you step out of your tent to face the day.
And once more face the risk of death.
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There are a thousand men at work, sprawled all over the allied side of the bank. The traps are being laid in the hundred yards from the river to the outskirts of your encampment, stretching to the first beginnings of the treeline in the east and another fifty yards to the west.
The men who work are levies, peasants accustomed to hard labor. Among them are the hunters and trappers of Velinor's jurisdiction, showing them how to lay traps with the limited resources available.
[Regimentation]
Men from your retinue work, as well. They're highly effective with little oversight, working in their small contubernii under the guidance of their decanus.
You walk amid the soldiers, who offer you greetings as you move. You reach the bank of the river and look out toward the enemies. You can already see them hauling lumber from the forest. They're foraging, just as you are. There's a flurry of activity in the center of their camp.
Even if the traps your men lay are ineffective, the earth is being torn up and disturbed. The stepping of two thousand boots is enough to churn the ground to mud, already made loose by the snow.
They dig ditches and pits. They lay spikes and caltrops. And you make damn sure they make leave some kind of mark where they lay these traps, so no unsuspecting workman from your side winds up dead or maimed.
You stand, arms crossed, watching as a group of eight men tear up the earth with shovels, digging a pit roughly five feet in diameter, and another five feet deep.
A sharpened stake sits at the bottom.
The little lumber your men have already foraged has been issued to the work crews. This particular crew has a small pile of wood next to them. They lay strips of this wood across the length of the pit. Next, they begin to pack a layer of snow and soil over the top. A small stick, embedded into the ground next to it, marks the existence of such a trap.
The crew turns to you for your approval.
You nod. Looks fine to me.
Satisfied, they move on. Or at least, most of them do. A single man out of the eight remains behind.
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