Entry 22

Sixteen pairs of armored boots marched through the gate, passing the two guards stationed along either side as their force pressed forward into the mountains. At the head of this escort walked a leading line, formed from those present in the hall during the strategic meeting. And in the center of this gleaming front line stood the captain, flanked on one side by Livand and on the other side by one of the men who spoke out at the war table.

I walked near the back of the main cluster, mentally preparing myself to fight at a moment's notice. The sword I'd found amongst the dead earlier had been replaced by a different, but equally battle-hardened weapon of unknown design. 

Shorter than those long blades formerly wielded by the Bovican military, but with greater reach than a Tritonian shortsword. And getting the damn thing proved a battle of its own; the blacksmith would hardly look at me, much less give me access to the armory. It took Livand wandering in by chance and explaining my situation, with no small amount of cursing from the smith, for the man to even acknowledge my presence.

Following that, he still refused to lend a Bovican one of his blades. Instead, I was told to wait in the main forge area while he disappeared through a door near the back. After standing around awkwardly for what felt like an eternity, out came the smith with a large open-topped barrel in his hands. Groaning from the strain, it landed before my feet with a thud and the sharp clang of metal.

"Here," he snapped, "pick your poison."

I peered into the barrel, spying what looked to be a whole lot of failed attempts at forging: a mace missing its spikes, a greatsword without a hilt, and a few dozen broken daggers lined the interior. But, not all of the choices were so dismal. Moving the mace, I could see an intact blade leaning against the side. Carefully drawing it out of the barrel, the glow from the forge cast an orange light upon the dust-covered edge. I ran my fingers along the side, removing dust and revealing a bright metal beneath, closer to the color of silver than that of steel.

Gazing at the blade, I asked the man, "Why doesn't anyone use this sword? Is there something wrong with it?"

"Do I look like a damn historian to you, boy?" He shouted, "That sword was here when I took over as quartermaster; if my predecessors didn't want it used, then that's reason enough for me. Now are you going to take the sword or not?"

He obviously didn't want this conversation, and neither did I. The sword was in my hand and almost out of the room when it hit me.

"Did it have a sheath? I don't think this one will hold it," I said, pointing to the dirty sword belt I'd picked up that morning.

"No. Take that half-finished one over there, and leave me be!"

On a table by the exit sat a row of materials and tools used in working leather, surrounding the scabbard he mentioned. Basically the only thing making it anything more than a belt was a single loop near the side, but it fit to the blade decent enough. Not much chance of dropping it, at least.

After all that, I ended up back on the road leading through the pass. This time, alongside people who I'd been trained to kill. And the entourage, of course.

"Are you scared?"

Voices close behind muttered restlessly, remaining relatively quiet in comparison to the sound of greaves and shields marching steadily.

"Of course I'm scared! I've never fought anyone before, you know that!"

The first voice, that of a man, suppressed laughter at the statement.

"You didn't do too poor against Kindas, if my memory serves."

"That was different," the other voice hissed, attempting to keep the noise low. The second was female; young sounding, probably not of age.

"Beating an idiot farmboy's face in is not the same as going to war!"

Farmers. A group of them had arrived at the southern entrance to the fort as Rells prepared his men to leave, forcing us all to wait idly while he spoke with them. From a distance, it seemed to get pretty heated between him and the people. Yet, they were nonetheless allowed to follow as extra manpower for the meeting; and the battle that would most surely follow, were things to go south.

"I didn't know Rells started hiring mercenaries."

It took me a moment to realize that he was talking to me. The venom in his voice at the mention of mercenaries starkly contrasted with the previous light-hearted exchange between him and the girl.

He continued, saying in a low growl, "Guess honor goes by the wayside some time or another."

There's probably a story behind that seething anger, but I didn't care enough at the time to find out.

"I'm not a mercenary," I replied.

"Then what are you?"

He didn't know it, but I'd been asking myself that same question since I walked away from the seige at Garved. No longer could I call myself a Bovican, not even if I wanted to; which I didn't. I wasn't a Confederate, I wasn't a Tritonian, and I wasn't simply a victim of the Bovican war machine.

I was one of the people keeping it alive.

I didn't have an answer then, and I'm not sure if I do now. So, I told him the truth - part of it.

"That's a good question. I'll let you know when I figure it out."

The man scoffed, allowing the silence to reign once again as we neared the location set for the meeting. Rising over the slope, the center of the pass became visible: a large tent stood at the halfway point, with entrance guards keeping an eye on their surroundings. Apparently the Confederates had been reinforced, as the number of soldiers patrolling the area seemed greater than those seventeen that I'd encountered before.

Rells held his hand up to stop, halting our momentum a few feet from the tent. He stepped forward to meet the men guarding the tent, speaking briefly before they stepped aside to allow him through. I watched him turn to Livand, give him an order of some kind, and then brush aside the tent flap as he entered. Livand walked back to the group, but didn't stop. He kept walking, circling the main cluster of soldiers and approaching me.

"Rells wants you in there, too."

Before I could let out a word of protest or question as to why I was needed, he continued with, "Don't ask why, I've got no clue. Just follow me."

I sighed, reluctantly following Livand. Upon moving the tent flap aside, the first thing I noticed was the layout. A wooden table had been brought in as the centerpiece, with a large map of the pass laid out across the surface. On one side of the table leaned the Confederate captain, Crescian Hillock; and on the side closest to the exit stood Captain Rells. Neither spoke, but the silence said enough.

"I wasn't sure if you would come."

Hillock broke the ice. He still refused to look up at the other captain.

"Your messenger caused a bit of a stir amongst my fellow commanders, but the message was received. I agree that these bandits are an issue, one that we can't deal with separately; working together is the only way."

The captain nodded in agreement, raising his head to look Rells in the eye.

"Is he Bovican?"

My heart dropped, as I knew my time was up. Rells turned towards me, no doubt wondering whether or not I would be alive long enough to fight if he said yes.

"Yes," he sighed, "he's Bovican. Did you know, before you sent him to meet with me?"

Hillock nodded slowly.

"I had a feeling. He didn't look or dress like one, but some things can't be kicked so easy; his walk gave him away. They're trained to move with efficiency, with specific combat maneuvers and stances engrained into their brains like a big brand that screams BOVICA. Dead giveaway."

I believed those habits had faded by then, but apparently enough remained to identify me with ease. That would be problematic going forward; worries for later, though.

"So," said Rells, "what happens to him now? The Confederacy has the right to imprison former Bovicans within the confines of the Kyrlund, and the pass is jointly-controlled land. I won't object to your decision, as long as it doesn't become an issue for Triton."

The Confederate paused for a long while, staring intently at the map on the table as if attempting to burn a hole through it. With one sentence, he would seal my fate.

"We don't want him."

Fate just got confusing quick.

"He did what I asked, and it seems to me that he intended to leave the Kyrlund from the start. The Bovicans within the Kyrlund will answer for their crimes," he said, shooting a glare at me for that part, "but those who escaped to Triton, Folyre and Aevandia are no longer under our control."

Now he changed focus from Rells, choosing to speak to me directly.

"After this battle is done, you leave the Kyrlund and you never come back."

I looked him directly in the eyes, meeting his gaze. 

"That was the plan."

Rells coughed, reminding us both of the matter at hand. 

"We need a battle plan, and just trying to win isn't going to cut it." Rells pointed to to the spot on the map where they now stood.

"Every time we succeed in pushing them back," he continued, "they manage to return with equal or greater numbers than before. They'll win the waiting game, that much is clear."

Moving his finger along the perimeter, stopping to point out the different offshoot paths along the way, he began explaining his strategy for victory.

"But every time they retreat, they do so after the sounding of a horn. The horn sounds, and they disappear onto these five paths. One of these has to lead back to their base of operations," he said, guiding his finger from the path into the mountains, "meaning we simply follow the retreat back to its source."

Hillock's brow furrowed, clearly not approving of this plan.

"I can't risk sending my men into unknown territory against an enemy of unknown size fighting for unknown reasons; sending people to follow the retreat would be throwing lives away for nothing!"

"He," Rells replied, pointing in my direction, "isn't one of your men. Not mine, either. We can send him to follow the bandits."

Just when I opened my mouth to speak, something broke through the top of the tent and landed on the map table. All of a sudden, the map burst into flames, spreading fast to cover the entire surface.

Both captains backed away quickly, keeping a distance from the flaming table. The Confederate looked more closely at the arrow that lay buried in the wood, then gazed out through the hole in the canvas roof.

"They're here."