“General! New orders from the king!”
General Hopper sat up, yawning as he rubbed his face. The young man stood just inside the tent; usually not allowed, but James could see sleet pouring down outside. He couldn’t fault the teenager for taking a step in.
“Thank you,” he said. “Leave them on the desk.”
“Yes, sir!” the young man said, hurrying over. He put the sealed letter on the desk, saluted, and scurried out.
James got off his cot, stretching. He eyed the letter suspiciously, pulling his coat on. The temperature outside was below freezing, and the canvas walls of his tent did little more than keep the sleet and snow out.
As slowly as possible, he sat down and broke the seal. He unfolded the letter with closed eyes, praying the orders were to go home. Or at least that they’d make sense.
> General Hopper:
>
> Beaver’s Pass has been held by the enemy far too long. On the 14th of Lish you are to send your troops through and destroy the enemy camp on the other side.
>
> If you fail, next month you will only receive half the rations you requested.
James felt his heart sink. The 14th was in two days. If this weather kept up, the pass would be flooded with ice water by then.
He got up and pushed aside the canvas flap, looking out. Three men were hurrying by, clutching mugs of tea.
“Soldiers!” James snapped.
They stopped, saluting him. A gust of wind made the skinniest one stumble back.
“Are you busy?” James asked.
“No, sir,” they replied.
“Come in,” he ordered. He waited for them to be out of the weather before speaking again. “Do you know how to write?”
Two of the three did. He sat them down at the desk and sent the third to bring him tea and rations of fruit for all of them. James pushed a stack of paper into the middle of the desk and told the two men to copy something onto each sheet.
Reluctant, ashamed, he wrote out the message.
> I regret to inform you of the death of ___.
>
> This brave soldier died on the 14th of Lesh, at the battle of Beaver’s Pass.
>
> My deepest condolences.
----------------------------------------
James unlocked the door of his bakery, greeting Mark, the town guard. The guard came in, stomping snow off his boots in the warmth of the shop.
“How’d the night watch go?” James asked conversationally, walking behind the counter.
“Boring as always,” Mark shrugged. “I saw a raccoon and three rats.”
“A raccoon?” James echoed, sliding four rolls into a bag for him.
“Yep. Rummaged through Paul’s compost,” Mark said, taking the bag. He slid two coins onto the counter. “You were gone last year at this time, weren’t you?”
James paused at the sudden hesitance in Mark’s voice. “Yes, I was… not here. Why?”
“Today is a semi-holiday for the town,” Mark said. “Thought I might warn you. You used to be in the army, right? Have you heard of the Battle of Beaver’s Pass?”
Like a flash of lightning, James felt the wind of a blizzard. He saw water rushing on his left and an avalanche descending on his right.
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And then it was gone.
“No,” he said, focusing on putting the coins away.
“It was a huge, vicious battle,” Mark said softly. “The report we got said thousands died on both side. Ultimately we lost, but everyone fought bravely. About a hundred men from this town died. Everyone here lost some kind of relative that day. Today. I lost my older brother. My mother still has the letter. Anyway, today is a day of mourning for the whole town. Most of the shops won’t be open.”
James didn’t know how he survived to the halfway point. Many hadn’t. The blizzard lifted, but that only meant the enemy, safely inside the towers on either side of the pass, could pick his men off the cliffs with greater ease. He debated jumping into the raging river, but knew he was the only one who could call a retreat.
James cleared his throat.
“Thank you for letting me know.”
Mark nodded, wished him a good day, and left.
James went into the back and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.
----------------------------------------
People need bread every day. Even on days of mourning. James made and sold the same number of rolls and loaves as always.
At four in the afternoon, a woman was telling him how her brave son died fighting when Tom walked in. James saw he was carrying two bottles and smiled hopefully.
The woman saw Tom and turned to him. “You’re newer in town than James; have you heard of the Battle of Beaver’s Pass?”
“I have now,” Tom said, handing the bottles to James. “Who did you lose in the battle?”
“My son, Henry,” she told him. “The letter doesn’t say, but I know he died after killing a good number of enemies. Would you like to see the letter?”
James jolted, nearly dropping the bottles. He couldn’t breathe.
“Certainly,” Tom said. “Do you carry it with you?”
“Always,” the woman said.
James watched in horror as she pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket. She set it on the counter, unfolding it.
The handwriting wasn’t his. It sloped awkwardly down the unlined page, ink slightly smudged. The left-handed soldier had written this one. But the signature at the bottom of the page-
Tom picked it up, holding the paper so James didn’t have to see the words. “It’s very short. I think I’d be glad it got to the point quickly.”
“Yes, I appreciate General Hopper didn’t try to hide the truth,” the woman said, taking it back.
James felt sick. He excused himself, going to the kitchen. He didn’t hear how the conversation ended, only the bell on the door as she left and the thunk of the lock when she was gone.
Tom walked into the kitchen, taking one of the bottles. “How are you doing?”
“I should have burned the letter the order to storm the pass came in,” James muttered, pulling a stool up to the table.
Tom pulled over the other stool, sitting across from him. “It’s not your fault.”
James gave him a faltering smile. “Is this your strong stuff or just cider?”
“You think I’d offer paltry cider on a day like today?” he countered.
“Thanks.” James pulled the cork out and took a swig. The alcohol burned.
“What were the orders?” Tom asked, uncorking his bottle. “Must have been something threatening for you to start out in a blizzard.”
James looked at him. “You were there?”
Tom nodded, studying the cork. “I’d been in the towers about a week at that point. We saw your men coming at us single-file and had to take them down, but it felt far too easy. Just sitting in a chair, casually reloading a crossbow as you inched your way along the cliff…”
“If we didn’t make an attempt, the king was going to cut down our rations,” James muttered.
Tom stared at him. “That bastard. So your choices were go on a suicide mission or starve to death?”
James nodded, taking another swig. “I should have died in that ‘battle’.”
“No, James, don’t think like that.”
“What do you think these people would do if they knew the truth?” he asked. “If someone recognized my signature?”
“You can’t worry about that,” Tom said softly. “If you do, you’ll go insane. You were just following orders. So was I. Hell, I probably killed someone from here. You just-"
“I just sent them onto a cliff in a blizzard. All of them. And then I lied so no one would know the… damn incompetence… cowardice… stupidity…”
Tom absently tapped his cork on the table. “Well. At least it’s over.” He took a swig of alcohol.
James glanced at Tom. His friend. His enemy. They knew each other better than anyone else in town, but there were still things they didn’t know. There were questions too dangerous to ask. Why General Thomas Stand had moved to a town in his enemy’s kingdom was one of those questions.
“The handwriting wasn’t yours,” Tom said suddenly. “Did you have someone write out a bunch of condolence letters?”
“Two people,” James answered. “When I got the orders I knew I’d need a few hundred letters. The men mysteriously developed horrible sicknesses on the morning of the fourteenth.”
“They didn’t desert? I would have deserted.”
“Death was better than being branded a deserter,” James shrugged.
Tom sighed. “Why did we let the war go on so long? Why didn’t we just write ‘no’ on the orders and send them back? Why was it easier to let thousands die?” The questions were rhetorical.
“Well,” James muttered. “At least it’s over.”
“Here’s to the memories,” Tom chanted, raising his bottle.
“Here’s to the nightmares,” James recited, lifting his bottle as well.
They sang the last line together. “And here’s to the death of the kings.”
They drank to the toast.