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Velinor paces the streets of camp, restless and unable to sleep. At his side walks another restless soldier, one of the archers under his command.
The huntsman says to the soldier, "I's don't like it, Gideon. Somethin' in the air… ya know? Call it a gut instinct. But a drill… after a battle? Somethin' ain't right, even if the orders are from the soddin' prince 'imself."
Gideon chuckles. "A drill, my ass. That violence sounded too real. The screaming…" He pauses. "Have ya spoken to the queen recently?"
"Nah. She said she didn't need a bodyguard, and that I's could take the night off." Velinor chuckles and adds, "Strange. She's the one who calls drills. Her or the Marshal."
"Never the prince. Hell, he's never done anythin' for the army. So… why now?" Gideon asks.
Before the pair can continue their discussion, a second soldier rushes up to them, shaking his head. "Sorry, boys, they's not lettin' me up near the command tent. Says it's 'royal business' er somethin'."
Velinor watches as Gideon narrows his eyes in suspicion.
The soldier continues, a satisfied smile creeping onto his face. "But I's did catch somethin' they's didn't want me to." Velinor gestures for him to continue. "A cart, sires. Actually a couple of 'em. Horse-drawn, like a small caravan er somethin'. Maybe thirty, forty guys went with 'em. They's just left camp, headed up for the river."
Velinor and Gideon exchange a glance. The huntsman looks back to the soldier and says, "That ain't right. Somethin's up, I's swear it."
Gideon says to Velinor, "Sir, I's can get some boys ready. Go after 'em."
Velinor replies, "No. Not until we's know for certain whose side everyone's on. I want you two to stay in camp. Keep an eye on the prince's men. If somethin' happens, Gideon, you get a horse and come after me."
The other soldier asks, "What of me, sir?"
"You stay. Keep an eye out. Make sure they's don't do anythin' else. Shoot 'em if ya gotta."
"Understood."
"Where are you goin', then, sir?" Gideon asks.
Velinor turns to look out into the black, his eyes locking onto the distant motion of a small caravan, bound north, approaching the river. It begins to use the makeshift bridges laid down earlier to cross.
He pins an end of his longbow to the ground and restrings the weapon.
"Hunting."
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