Braxton rubbed his stubbly chin as he looked over the enemy encampment, mind slowly ticking away through possibilities. His thoughts circled like hungry vultures, searching the tattered corpses of his plans for anything that could be scavenged. Potential stratagems and countermeasures warred for his attention, throwing their wails of inadequacy at him with increasing intensity.

Despite the thoughts that raced through his mind, Braxton was an old hack at not letting himself be taken in by panic. His heart-rate remained steady, his breathing even, and his voice silent, not declaring all the myriad curses he wanted to air for the world to hear. The same could not be said for the one-handed young man next to him.

“Well, stuff me arse full of straw and burn me with the chaff!” Rai hissed out as he examined the encampment approximately ten miles north of the Dupandover, and two east of the Tinted River.

Braxton reached over and grabbed the lad’s belt, yanking him back down from where Half-head’s crouch had turned into a half-standing position. He followed this action with a firm cuff to the side of the boy’s head.

“Keep your blasted claptrap shut you blithering dunce!” Braxton said in soft tones.

He had long ago learned that whispers and quiet hisses carried further than was optimal for a scout, while soft and quiet words were better for unnoticed communication. Half-head scowled at him petulantly. At least, Braxton assumed it was the lad’s equivalent of petulance. With his scarred rictus of a face, any expression other than neutral just looked plain menacing on the boy’s face. Braxton cuffed him again.

“Stop looking at me like that. You look like a half-dead warthog with a migraine.” He paused at the expression on the lad’s face.

Braxton had been expecting a look of mild hurt and confusion, if not resentment. That was fine as far as he was concerned. Braxton was not the roughest of men, but he was no genteel noble to tiptoe around his words like he was in a field of daisies and eggshells. As long as Half-head listened, he didn’t care if the lad hated him, it might actually even be better that way. If Braxton phrased all his orders as a doubtful query of the child’s ability, the boy would be more likely to actually put forth his utmost effort.

It was surprising to Braxton then, when the expression he viewed on Rai’s face was more akin to wry amusement. Hooded in the far recesses of the lad’s eyes was a glimmer of hurt, yes, but it looked to be the ache of an old wound. Half-head smirked at him.

“Half-dead warthog…” the lad murmured with pursed lips. “That be a good one, Old-Scout. I’ll have tae be remembering it.”

Braxton gave the boy a flat look for a moment. He wasn’t old. He wasn’t. He was hardly even forty-five, practically still in the bloom of youth. If his ankles twinged a bit more in the morning than was healthy, and his knees ached before a storm, that didn’t make him old. Of course not, it was just the Reaper reminding him that he was still alive. And if there was more grey in his hair than was normal for forty-five, well, why shouldn’t there be? Braxton had lived enough for any man three times his age, and was certain that the grey made him look distinguished. Not old. His flat look turned to a glare directed at the boy, who looked like he had a very different word than distinguished resting on his lips. He thought about muttering something regarding the disrespect of elders, then realized that this would likely make the boy’s point for him. Braxton turned away instead from the cheeky little monster, back to what was of more pressing import.

The enemy encampment had twice as many men as Braxton had initially estimated. Apparently, only half of the occupants had been involved in the seizure of the barge and its occupants. Braxton was starting to get a headache. Seventy men secreted in the heavily forested wilderness of Whoid Stria could be feasibly dealt with, if not necessarily easily. One-hundred-and-forty men secreted in the wilderness, however, was a different tale altogether. When taken with the rudimentary fortifications and trenches that were, even now, being dug around the camp by the prisoners, it was like comparing a puppy to a dire wolf.

“Their commander isn’t taking any chances…” Braxton muttered quietly, earning an inquisitive look from Half-head.

“What’re ye on about now Old-Scout?” the boy asked. Braxton grunted, then replied,

“Look there, you see that?” He pointed to where Lord Donovan and Captain O’Donnell could be seen digging in a line with twenty others who Braxton assumed were marked as slaves. He was too far away to see their faces clearly, but the inflamed red cuts that were visible on Caj and Robert’s faces were telling.

“Nae, Old-Scout,” Half-head drawled sarcastically, “I did nae notice the 22 men with shovels their hands.” He gave Braxton a reproachful look. “Ye do know that I only be blind in one eye? Right?”

Braxton turned flat brown eyes back on the youth. This was why he hated children. Especially young men. Until they were turned into soldiers or old men, all they were good for was foolish stunts, brash words, and drunken brawls. Oh aye, occasionally they might be useful for carrying heavy things, target practice, or a convenient scapegoat. More often, however, they were just annoying, with little to no proper respect for their elders. Not that Braxton was an elder, or old. No matter what the lad thought.

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Braxton took a deep breath. He would not give the lad a speech about giving lip. He would not. Instead, he pointed again, jabbing his finger in the direction of the digging slaves, rather than Half-head’s burned face.

“That’s a trench, Half-pint.” Braxton grumbled, purposefully butchering the boys name. “That means their digging in for potential attack.” His finger shifted to where a grouping of soldiers could be seen trimming rough logs, and sharpening them to points under the watchful eye of a blonde warrior, who stalked back and forth not unlike some drill sergeants Braxton knew. “Those are stakes for a wooden wall that will likely go up in the next four days, if their current efficiency is anything to go by.” He pointed to the line of mercenaries carrying firewood out of the woods on the opposite side of the camp. “That is firewood Boyo.” Braxton growled, the word rumbling like a curse in his throat. He glared at Half-head, and was ungratified. The boy’s face didn’t seem surprised or impressed.

“I’m nae stupid, Old-Scout.” He stated in a surprisingly even tone. “Why do ye think I was cursing? It was nae because I had a burr in me boot.” He turned back towards the encampment. “So, what’re we going tae be doing about this den of bruisers?” The boy rubbed his hands together, looking excited and impatient at the same time. Braxton snorted.

“We aren’t going to do anything.” He said pointedly. “You are going to put one foot in front of the other and get to walking. Ingot’s at least a week-and-a-half away by foot, and the quicker you get there, the better.” Braxton raised a finger to forestall the objections on the lad’s twisted lips. “I on the other hand, get the unenviable task of looking after Lord Nincompoop and watching this camp.”

“If ye be thinkin’ that I’ll be getting gone anytime quick, ye’ve another thing coming Old-scout.” Half-head cut in, a flame of fury flickering in his voice, and casting shadows through the air between the two of them. “I’m nae what ye’d call a particularly good person, Old-scout. Aye, and I’m not what ye’d consider a particularly good brother either, and Reaper knows, that I sure as the threshing floor, do not be even the shadow of a shadow of a particularly good manservant.” He hissed out. A tense pause ensued for a long moment, one which Braxton was happy to let the boy break. “But,” Half-head said quietly, and with utter finality, “Those people down there,” he pointed to the encampment, “Natalia, Lordling, Big-man, and Mute: They be crew. And ye do nae leave crew behind. Ye do nae leave family behind.” Rai inhaled deeply, “Sae, Sergeant Major Bolindear,” He said Braxton’s title like a curse, “If ye think that Rai Half-head, is gonna turn tale and run, well, ye can take that pretty, golden idea, and shove it so far up yer shiny, soldier’s arse that it tops off that great mountain of a stick ye’ve got lodged up there currently. Then, someday, when ye finally get around tae pullin’ it out, ye’ll have a pretty decoration fer yer new walking stick.”

Half-head Leaned back, apparently satisfied. Braxton cocked an eyebrow curiously, but didn’t uncross his arms. The boy had fortunately kept his voice low enough to not attract the attention of anyone in the surroundings.

“Are you done, Half-pint?” Braxton asked stonily. The young man bristled, but Braxton spoke before he could. “Look, boyo, here’s the situation. There are three of us, and at leas a hundred and twenty of them. That’s forty to one odds, before you factor in that Lord Nincompoop is worse than useless, and is better left back at camp, charring meat in new and creative ways.” They both winced momentarily at the reminder of the Lords attempt to share in the duties of the camp the day before, and the flavor of charcoal rabbit. “Then we have to take into account that you only count as half a fighter at best, Half-pint. That takes our odds from forty to one, up to eighty to one at least? Tell me, Half-pint,” he asked acidly, putting venom into the sound of his new nickname for the boy, “Have you ever seen someone successfully fight with forty men? How about eighty? Hmm? Well?” he prodded.

“Nae.” Rai said sullenly, in the callow manner mother nature only afforded to the young.

“No.” Braxton said, as chipperly as he could manage without his voice carrying, “You know, Boyo, I haven’t either, and I’ve been around considerably longer than you have.” He paused for a moment. “Funny that, you’d assume that, since we are apparently so willing to cavalierly take on such a group, that we must have some example. Don’t you think so Half-pint?”

“Aye.”

“Funny you should say so, I also can’t seem to think of a single instance. But you know acourse of action that I can think of that has multiple instances of Precedent, Half-Pint?”

This time he didn’t get a response, just a shrug and a scratch at that chin from the boy.

“It’s a novel idea, really,” he continued off-handedly, “Called, reinforcements.” He pulled his mustaches thoughtfully. “You see, the concept is that you are facing a force that is simply too much for you to handle; maybe they’ve got more men than you, or a more defensible position, or prisoners.” He looked pointedly towards the camp below them. “Or maybe, Boyo,” he whispered, “They’ve got all three.” He paused then leaned back, easing the tension in his shoulders. “So, naturally, you do the smart thing; you get some much needed assistance. Preferably in the form of light infantry and calvary from the nearest settlement, say, a city by the name of Ingot.” Half-head winced at the blasé tone of Braxton’s voice, which immediately changed to intensity to match that of his own in his previous rant. “It’s very simple really, and you’d probably already be halfway back from Ingot if you would just get up of your lazy backside and get moving. You say going is cowardly, I say not going is selfish and stupid, not to mention the most yellow-bellied, chicken-hearted, lily-livered, disgraceful thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing.”

Half-head’s shoulders were slumping now, and Braxton could see that he was close to having the lad. He added one last layer of words, one last straw to the back of the camel.

“Think about it Half-head” he whispered, using the boy’s preferred moniker, absurd as it was, “What would Caj want you to do? What would Emma want you to do?” The boy snorted then looked up

“Fine, I’ll go already, Old-scout.” The boy said sharply. “Just stop with yer blitherin’ and blatherin’, I be tae young fer that maudlin’ chaff the ye old folks like tae be comforting yerself’s with.”

He stood up and walked away, back in the direction of their camp, muttering something about how much he hated charred rabbit under his breath. Braxton stared after him. Had he really just let that youngster get in the last word? Maybe age really was catching up to him. Groaning, he got to his feet, ignoring the myriad aches and shooting pains that his ankles, knees, and back mad known, and stretched.

Nah, he thought, shaking a twinge out of his left ankle, I’m still as young and spry as a man half my age. And twice as strong. No matter what Half-pint thinks.