The air in medical tents always smells of death. Outside, in the fresh air, you can breathe clearly again, even if you can still hear the awful sounds of the injured behind you.
You stare out upon the enemy camp as you had the night before, but this time for a tactical purpose, rather than a meditative one. Archers, more than what can be precisely counted at a glance but well over two hundred, still stand in a rough line a hundred and fifty yards from their campsite.
A slight dip in the elevation of the terrain provides excellent cover from your eyes. The men only needed to crawl through the snow to reach their position, then stand and loose their arrows.
You can tell these are no professionals, even from your far distance. There's no discipline among them. No standard uniform or weapon. These are levy archers, similar to your own. They're nothing like the Krorid Rangers you so wish to possess under your banner.
Before you can begin to count the enemy archers, a familiar voice calls from behind. "Arthur Hornraven?"
You quickly spin around, watching as Darin limps toward you.
"Arthur Hornraven! Ya didn't wind up dead!" he calls as he approaches.
You raise an eyebrow. "Worried about me?"
He rolls his eyes. "Contrary to what ya have told yerself in that head of yers, people do actually worry about'cha."
"That's their own fault," you deadpan.
"Shut up, ya fuckin' moron, and follow me," he replies.
You follow behind him as he leads you around and between a set of tents, ending up on one of the open trails that leads through the camps. The front entrances lie behind you now.
After a few minutes of walking, you maneuver your way through your camp back to the command pavilion. There's a general sense of chaos among your men, who mill about, asking after brothers and friends, not knowing whether they're dead.
The noncombatants and camp followers amidst your army are in much the same state. Both the levies and the followers are just peasants, after all. The only ones who are truly maintaining a sense of order are the military men.
The knights, the killers, and the veterans keep their cool. Death is no stranger to these men.
You and Darin reach the command pavilion. Obren is standing guard in front of the entrance, accompanied by one other armored soldier. They salute upon seeing you, Obren stepping forward to say, "Her Majesty awaits you inside."
"Let's go then," Darin replies. Obren nods, turns to the man with him, and dismisses him. The three of you then enter the pavilion.
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