A Poor Day For Digging Graves

Caj watched with admiration as Fergus stole up behind a patrolling sentry, silent as a mouse and smooth as a river stone, keeping pace with the man right up until the moment he stabbed the man in the kidney, causing him to seize up, then slit the man's throat. He continued the same pace as he stripped the man of anything useful- belt, sword, dagger, and waterskin, all in less than three seconds – then continued on his way, taking up the sentry's stride. The whole business was conducted so fast and precisely, any casual observer would be hard pressed to say anything had happened other than the sentry tripping. Hell, even the body had been tipped into the moat off to the side of the camp, and seeing what little blood made it to the ground before he was dropped over would be near impossible in this lighting.

Caj was impressed. Narm hadn't skimped on his education, and neither had Bietre. As a result he had more training than the average soldier on assassination and infiltration techniques, but this gave him new appreciation for professionals of the craft, which Fergus clearly was. Caj was starting to doubt the man's claim that he'd only been part of a scouting regiment, and was growing certain that the man was once a dragoon, who was falling back on old habits of disguise. Caj had to admit though, he didn't much care as long as the man kept up what he had been over the last half a mark; there were officially no further Vencheng sentries, mercenary or otherwise, left circling the camp.

Caj looked to the sky, and judged the angle of the moon. It was still two-and-a-quarter marks to shift change by his count, so they had time before the assassinations were discovered. Fergus stole over to him, keeping to the shadows, and said in a low voice that carried less than a whisper

""Ats all o' 'em sir, dead as doornails and just as quiet." Caj nodded and replied,

"Let's get their weapons back to Knight Captain O'Donnel, and get our next set of orders." Fergus looked at him sideways

"If'n ye don' mind me askin' sir, why're ye takin' yer orders from the knight cap'n? It's clear nuff that ye've the skills and the position tae take command yerself." Caj shot the man the most sergeant-like glare he could muster.

"I listen to his commands because it's my duty, sergeant. I am a common soldier, as are you. My commander orders, and I obey." Fergus snorted.

"If'n yer trying tae sell that yer a common-born lad like the rest o' us, ye might be wantin' to dust off the Greatriver I'm hearin' in yer accent. Sir." He added grudgingly a after couple heartbeats and a glare from Caj.

"If'n I'm wantin' tae talk like cityfolk, I'll damn well be doing as I damn please." Caj replied, aping the man's accent. Fergus grinned.

"Fair 'nuff, sir."

The made the rest of the way back to the men in silence. Upon arrival, they slipped into the cage and began distributing the weapons they had collected from the 10 sentries they had killed. There was some confusion and inevitable scuffling among the men as to who got the largest, sharpest blades, put to rest with admirable haste by Maxim, who then took it upon himself to distribute what weapons they had as even-handedly as possible.

A matter of moments later their army was ready, and Caj surveyed it with steely eyes. It was a small, ill-equipped, undertrained, hungry army, but whatever they lacked in traditionally understood necessities for taking the field, they made up for in determination, discipline, and pure grit. One of the men let out a low wheeze that sounded like the last breath of a dying kitten, and another nearly stabbed his eye out with his own dagger when he absentmindedly scratched his nose. Caj sighed inwardly.

Who am I kidding? He thought with the sort of dark humor only men deep in foxholes, or the bottle can conjure up. We're all going to die. Especially the kid with the dagger. Reaper might not even have to swing his scythe for that one.

Everyone had at least a belt dagger, with the exception of Emma, who'd been given a more proportionally sized skinning knife. She held it with a disturbing comfortability that communicated she knew how to stab a man. Moderately concerning, given that as far as he was aware, she'd never been trained in the use of weapons while his ward. None of his concern, he was sure. He looked over to see the Elforian woman that Emma was always hanging around, Janny, or Jasmine, or some other woman's name that started with J. She was making the rounds with the half a dozen older prisoners and Emma, clearly taking the lead on structuring the noncombatant action for the upcoming battle. That was good. Hopefully, they'd be able to establish an effective line of retreat for them early on, and allow for a smooth exit for everyone with minimal bloodshed. His hand flexed on the haft of Sven's axe at the unlikely thought, and he looked down at it.

It was a fine weapon. Simple, true, and lacking in decoration, but no less masterful for the fact. Its haft was made of well-treated hickory, worn smooth by countless years of handling. The head was a simple, single bladed axe, with a slight protrusion on the backside that was almost a hammer, to help balance out the weight a little. The handle was longer than he was used to seeing on axes, almost long enough to be a short spear. He stared down at the weapon which belonged to a man he had killed less than 20 minutes before.

Caj recalled another axe, in a seasoned wooden box, hidden under his bed back at the Noblis estate. Funny, how one of the weapons he felt least affinity with using seemed to be attached to such important moments and people in his life. He wondered if the Reaper, or some other, foreign god, was having a laugh at his expense. His fingers padded on the shaft of the weapon as he flexed his hands. He sighed. Objectively speaking, the best choice he could make at the moment would be to force one of the men with a sword swap weapons with him, as he was likely far more skilled than a relatively untrained man. But, for some reason he couldn't put into words, that just didn't feel right. This weapon deserved better than that. Sven's memory deserved better than that. Caj nodded. He would put this weapon to use tonight, and in so doing, seal his dealings with the Northman.

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***

Maxim was having something of a rough night.

In fairness, he'd been having more of those of late than he thought he ever would. Even during his training and duties in Shenil, he'd never slept outside, and in such an uncomfortable setting, for so long. There had always been some mountain village, with an inn, or a hayloft, and if you were lucky, some innkeeper or farmers daughter willing to share the accommodation. Sleeping on the ground, in a cage, for weeks on end, was something that his noble officers training hadn't remotely trained him for. It certainly could've been worse, he could've been one of those bydnye pridurki given to the mercenaries. Those bednyagi had been worked to the bone day in and day out, and Caj had been tortured besides, gaining more than a few scars to add to the man's growing collection. Maxim, on the other hand, had simply been cold, and had a backache.

Tonight, however, things were different. Tonight, Maxim had woken to the sounds of shuffling, distressed whispering, and the muffled curses of the man to his right being trodden upon. When he'd arisen, he witnessed the site of a murder. Shortly thereafter, he had been demoted to a rank of Sergeant. Then someone had thrust a short sword into his hand, and informed him he would be killing men this night. Finally, he had been informed that he had been given, what was in his opinion, the worst possible role in tonight's engagement. It involved being highly visible, at the start of a battle where the Strian's were wildly outnumbered. In his, admittedly limited, experience, being 'highly visible' in a battle usually ended with you getting 'highly dead' sometime shortly thereafter. High visibility was for dancefloors, duels, and bar-room brawls, in that order. Battlefields didn't make the list.

The five squads previously created had been divided into four groups. Two squads, consisting of one of the more experienced groups and one whose members were more… fidgety, had stayed behind with the noncombatants. This group was tasked with evacuating the handful of noncombatants they had into the woods, before circling back to reinforce the main offensive. Another two squads, led by Caj and some commoner named Fergus, had been tasked with a pincer offensive on the camp, silently killing any sleeping Vencheng as they went. The last squad, and incidentally the one Maxim found himself a part of, was what Caj had dubbed, in a fit of black humor, the 'fire brigade'. Their job? To break open the gates of hell.

While the two 'forward offensive teams', were given the job of silently slicing the throats of men destined to never wake, Maxim's squad was given a more problematic task. They were supposed to set fire to the entire blyadskiy camp on fire. With this task in mind, Maxim had assembled a team of 6 of the thinnest, fastest prisoners in the camp. Built much like himself, his team formed nearly identical silhouettes in the darkness and they scuttled as quietly as possible between tents and sleeping mercenaries. In short time, they arrived at the mercenary quartermasters tent, which unlike its counterpart on the soldier's side of camp, was unguarded and unlit. One of his men, little more than a boy with what a generous soul might've called a mustache, slit a large rent on the back side of the tent, which they all slid through in silence. Once inside the thick oilskin tent, the boy pinched the opening shut, and held it there, so that it nothing would look amiss to an outside observer. A quick inspection revealed the tent to be truly empty, and Maxim and the Fire Brigade let out a relieved sigh. One of the men piped up in an accent so common it might as well have been steel in an armory,

"What now, boss? What's da plan?"

"Yeah." Another agreed, "Ye never did get 'round to layin' that one out for us."

And just like that every eye in the tent was on Maxim. Well blast it all. He hadn't gotten that far yet. 'Set some fires' Caj said, 'Make them big' Robert said, 'Get the rubes all riled up, and distracted' Maxim had agreed, unthinkingly at the time. Caj had clearly been surprised by how readily Maxim had agreed, and at the young nobles assurance that he needed no oversight to plan, 'such simple distraction', what did the man think he was, an amateur? He had strode away and collected his men with confidence, stating all the while that the plan would come together shortly. Any time now, he was certain.

Any time, however, had never come, and now, he found himself at that unfortunate junction which has undone many a man. That fabled land where words meet actions, and the truth was seen. And the truth was, Maxim had nothing. No plan other than a vague knowledge that torched could be found at the quartermasters depot, and that oil soaked tents were probably flammable. But, the time had come for the truth to be seen by the men following him, the men who were trusting him. There was nothing to do but bluff his way through it. As they say in Shenil:

Kto ne riskuyet, tot ne pyot shampanskogo. He who does not take risks does not drink champagne.

Maxim strode in a random direction with a confidence he didn't feel. Fortunately, it also happened to be in the direction of some fortuitously unused torches already pre-soaked in pitch. There, beside the slotted barrels holding the torches, was a haphazard pile of quivers curiously absent of arrows or crossbow bolts. Without hesitation, as though he'd meant to do so all along, Maxim scooped up a quiver and stuffed 5 torches into it, causing it to bulge unnaturally, before swinging it over his right shoulder. He spoke with authority then, as though his current idea was the work of hours of planning, and not something he'd come up with in the last 5 seconds.

"First, everyone gets two of these quivers filled with torches." The fire brigade shuffled forward nervously, arming themselves with the lighting implements. One of the men, the one who'd slice the tent open piped up.

"What now, M'lord?" he asked nervously. Maxim grinned at his squad confidently, as though he was certain his hare-brained scheme was going to work, and not get them all killed.

"Now, we show these bastards where lobsters spend the winter!" The five men stared at him blankly, and he shrugged. "It sounds better in Shenilian." He said by way of defense.