"Sounds good," Elya replies.
"Be back in a bit, then," you say, departing from her side and setting out down the column.
Next
Three more weeks have passed. Another three hundred miles have been marched. And more bodies have been laid to rest, buried in unmarked graves at the side of the road. Those mortally wounded finally expire from their injuries. Others perish from the rot, whilst others die of illness.
But not Darin.
The old man is still kicking, nearly fully recovered from his beating. The two of you drink from your "medicinal" vodka, the drink prescribed to you by Lada, as you sit together in the back of a covered supply wagon.
Your own injuries are healing too, albeit slowly. The bruising has receded and the cuts are scabbed over.
He grimaces after taking another sip. "God, I don't know how ya can even drink this stuff."
"Like this," you deadpan, taking another swig.
A pervasive mix of both nostalgia and dread fills you. Drinking beside Darin this far south reminds you of The War. Now only two weeks worth of marching away from Krorid, the landscape has shifted once again, to something much more… familiar.
The air is more humid here, even if it is only mid-spring. Groves of trees are becoming more common and more dense. You've even passed through a dozen or so small towns and villages, untouched by the civil war.
But with Rade's army bearing down on you, you've little confidence they can avoid it forever.
Your army has pulled off the road and halted for the day. The fading evening sun pokes through the clouds. All around you, men set up their tents and campfires. They rest themselves for tomorrow, for the next day of painful marching.
Darin, seemingly having read your nostalgic thoughts, says, "Damn… I keep thinkin' of the last time we's did this."