A Poor Day For Digging Graves

The cripple was getting on Patrick's nerves, and greatly testing his newfound devotion to the betterment of himself and the world around him. It wasn't a very charitable thing, he knew, to call Rai Half-head 'the cripple', even in the confines of his own mind, but Patrick was experiencing some difficulties in being charitable at the moment.

The descriptor was even less generous when you took into account the 'soldiers' that surrounded them now, most of whom were cripples in their own right. But then, Rai Half-head would stand out even among such a crowd. A cripple among cripples, a less generous sort than Patrick might've said. How in the Reaper's Bloody hells the cripple had managed to draft a small army without it containing more than a dozen able-bodies men was beyond him, but the lad had managed it. Something of a miracle worker, the cripple was.

Patrick MacNiel's current irritation with the boy had little enough to do with the amassed forces hiding in the woods with them. After all, a cripple army was better than no army at all, and Rai had gone a good ways towards building up some good will with Patrick after saving his life on the barge. No, it was the boys incessant chattering.

"Hey, Patty-boy," the cripple said in that infuriating accent of his "When do ye reckon we'll be marchin' on down thar tae crush some skulls?" He smacked the end of his strange, pipe-like weapon into his palm eagerly.

"When Braxton gives us the signal." Patrick grated out for what must've been the hundredth time.

"Mmm," the boy mumbled noncommittally, "When d'ya think that's like tae be? Old-scout can be mighty slow sometimes." Mercifully, one of the soldiers came up and tapped Rai on the shoulder, taking his attention away from Patrick, and giving him a moment to recover his irritation.

"Sir," the soldier whispered, "I got me sometin to report I does. The enemy, they're in the trees… They're everywhere, sir, what's is we goin ta do?" His voice was starting to get shrill at the end, enough that Patrick was growing concerned about the man blowing their cover, but Rai handled the fellow surprisingly deftly.

"I know that Ingvald, ye daft prick," Rai said, as though it was obvious that all the trees around them were actually enemy soldiers in disguise, "But we got nothin tae worry 'bout tonight." Ingvald looked ready to protest, but Rai rolled right over him. "Look mate, it's like this, see," He jerked his thumb at one of the trees. "What we gots 'ere is a 'intelligence committee'. They's jus' 'ere tae watch and report on our movements, and what we's sayin' like, yeah?" the man nodded uncertainly, and Rai slapped him on the shoulder companionably. "Good, Good," He said, "So, what I be needin' ye tae do is go around an' tell the lads tae pipe down, quiet like, so they don't go telling the enemies our plan? Aye? Good man." Ingvald walked away, once more doing a circuit to ensure all the soldiers remained quiet. It was the third or fourth time such an episode had played out that night.

"That," Patrick said begrudgingly, "Was well done Master Rai. You have a gift for dealing with the infirm." Rai gave him a sidelong look before nodding.

"Thanks, Patty-boy."

They sat in blessed empty silence for a moment.

"Sae. When do ye reckon we march?" Rai broke the silence reaching back to scratch his rear, and peering diffidently into the night air behind them. Flame bloomed in the camp below them, and Patrick grinned as he saw the flashing of Braxton's hand mirror, on the other side of camp.

"I'd say about now."

***

Caj stepped out of the tent belonging to the 12th man he'd killed that night, into the smell of smoke. For a moment, he was confused. His mind was moderately preoccupied with the image of the last soldier he'd killed. Blood burbling up from the deep cut across his throat. Blood flowing over the remarkably detailed charcoal drawing of a woman, and a child that looked so much like him. Blood, seeping into and staining that family's future in the same way it did that charcoal portrait. The moment passed, as his subconscious mind overrode his thoughts on morality, and why he was probably going to hell. Sprinting at him, through an increasingly growing haze, was a short, slender figure carrying a torch. For a moment, he prepared to limber Sven's axe, and end the figure, before recognizing him. It was Maxim.

The lordling hurtled between tents, silent as death, the sword in his left hand symbolizing death for the Vencheng, while the torch in his right proclaimed hope for the Strains. He spun, looking almost like he was dancing, as one hand pushed a torch against a tent, and another sliced the stake line holding the structure up. The oil-treated canvas went up with a whoosh, and collapsed on its occupants. Without missing a beat, Maxim Spun and started in on another tent, and another. Five tents were alight before the screams started in that section, and there was a trail of 7 more behind him. Looking down the orderly rows of the Vencheng soldiers' side of the camp, he saw three other vectors of flame and destruction coming to life, screams rising with them. The group of prisoners that made up his cobbled together squads came hurrying out of the surrounding tents, to se what was going on. Caj grinned wide as Maxim sprinted up to him and chucked a quiver filled with torches at him.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Take… One…" he panted, his Edralian accent thick, "And… Pass it… Around…"

Caj laughed at the absurdity, before snatching one of the torches from the bundle, and chucking it at a short stocky man next to him. One of the two Vencheng yard slaves, named Xiu, if he remembered correctly. The man took it with a grin of his own, before repeating the process. Caj didn't wait to give orders, they were past the point of that now. He sprinted off, Maxim in tow, lighting his torch as he went. There was more blood to spill this night, more haunting memories to make for future nightmares.

***

Robert was antsy for a fight. For one of the first times inn his life, He actually wanted to fight someone. Not because he particularly hated the Vencheng soldiers that would fall under his blade, or even because he wanted the glory that so many men had fought, bled, and died for throughout history. No, It was none of these things. Rather, it was duty that pulled at him. He felt useless, squatting inside a cage, watching as those camped on the south side of the encampment streamed towards the fires in the north. His job had meaning, he knew, leading the elderly, Natalia, and Emma away from the fighting, and ensuring good contact was made with the back line and Braxton. It was a worthy job, but not the one he felt duty call him to. He stole a glance to the par tof the camp that was in flames, and watched a man named Phillip, who had shared water with him 2 days past, get cut down by a group of three mercenaries. Further on, he could see other silhouettes falling. He had no way to know if they were his men, or belonged to the Vencheng forces, but somewhere deep down, in the darker part of his soul he preferred not to look to closely at, he knew.

He knew it didn't matter. Every man who died tonight died because of his choices, his commands, his actions. He could do nothing to banish the haunting melody of steel on steel, mournful wails, or flame searing flesh. That would surely lurk in the places the light of a soul doesn't dare reach, ready to pounce and devour him, for the rest of time.

But. He could do little enough about that. As it was, all he had left to cling to this night was duty, and try as he might to convince himself that his duty was with guiding this group of noncombatants to the edge of this encampment and beyond, he couldn't manage it. He felt in his bones that his duty could only be fulfilled with a weapon in his hand, and brothers in arms by his side. A hand on his shoulder startled him. He looked up to see Lady Natalia hovering over him, a vague expression of concern on her face.

"Ser O'Donnell," She said in hushed tones, "forgive my inquiry, but at what juncture will we be leaving? Surely some of the soldiers will soon notice our reduced number?" Her formality in such a stressful situation should've annoyed him, might've if he hadn't been in so desperate need of a lifeline. Instead, Robert latched onto it like it was his last tether to reality.

"At risk of contradicting you Milady," he replied, sheltering in the firm formality of this mode of speech, "I suspect the enemy is more focused on the fires than they are us. We shall depart soon, once our allies on the outside lay an appropriate mode of retreat for us." She looked at him somewhat strangely, before nodding once and making her way over to where the other noncombatants crouched, relaying his words.

Robert watched and waited. To move before and effective line of retreat was established would be foolishness. If nothing happened soon, however, he feared – There! The flash of a hooded lantern, once long, twice short, once long. The signal for a path to command. Robert stood.

"We move." He said simply.

With alacrity, all the noncombatants were up, huddling together, and the two squads were forming up around them in the diamond formation they had previously discussed. He hoped no formation changes were necessary in this confrontation, because they were doomed if that was the case. He hadn't even bothered to instruct the men in hand signals other than 'Stop', 'Attack', and 'Run like hell', not wanting to confuse them overmuch. Their formation rallied, Robert and his troop of eighteen former prisoners began their brisk jog down the central thoroughfare that split the mercenary and soldier's sides of the Vencheng Camp.

About a quarter of the way to their destination, a burly mercenary stumbled out in front of them, raising a large, curved longsword, what the Vencheng called a Dao. Robert, heading the forward tip of the diamond moved to engage, along with the two soldiers flanking him. His shorter Jian occupied the mercenary's Dao, and the prisoner attacking on the man's right swung high, further drawing the mercenaries attention. The Mercenary managed to disengage from Robert, and parry the second man's blade, showing admirable skill with his chosen weapon as he reset his stance and clashed once more with Robert. Admirable skill, however, has nothing on a sword to the kidneys. As the third prisoner, unaccounted for by the mercenary, Robert riposted, his blade finding the Vencheng's heart and ending the matter.

They encountered two more individual warriors who stood in their path to retreat, but dispatched them much as they had the first. Aside from that, the south end of camp seemed almost empty, all its former occupants having rushed to the north. As they approached the trench that Robert had spent so much time digging in the last six weeks, he saw two makeshift bridges laid across the trenches and thirty or so armed men in the process of crossing one of them. When he looked closer, he grew somewhat confused at noticing that most of them appeared to be elderly, and crippled at that. Well, beggars couldn't be choosers he supposed. Then he spotted Braxton. Robert nearly rushed up to embrace the other man, so great was his relief, but he restrained himself. Braxton didn't bother, wrapping him in a bear hug.

"It's good to see you boyo." The Sergeant Major said softly, before grabbing him by the shoulder's and pushing him away, inspecting his face. "Even if you did go and get even skinnier on me, and decided to pick up a few scars." A grin split the mans face for a moment. Then, the moment passed, he stepped back, and the world reset. Once again, Robert was in the midst of a military action, and Braxton was in command of his reinforcements. "I believe, Knight Captain," Braxton said evenly, "That you have a field report to give me. You have thirty seconds. Report!"

Robert had never been more happy to give a report in his life.