Chapter 11: No Turning Back

Alarik rested for a moment, removing his boots and rubbing his sore feet. They were calloused and blistered from endless marching, and having just a short time to soothe the pain and ease his back was a time of sheer bliss. As close as bliss can get covered in bug bits and surrounded by nobles and Khorsuli, at least. Perhaps it wasn’t all that close.

His stomach gurgled amid groans of pain from rubbing out the knots in his feet and legs. What joy he could find came in part from seeing Inaya returning. How it came to be that the positives he was finding were coming from a Khorsuli coming to his camp was a strange twist of fate indeed.

Shalmanesser was still lying prone, carried on a makeshift stretcher that Inaya had made for him, so she had taken on the burden of doing the work of both Khorsuli shamans herself. To most, it would seem she was hardly bothered by the extra tasks and the weight of her friend’s sudden… illness, perhaps is the right word. He didn’t rise to the rank he had by not knowing his troops, however. There are subtleties. All he had to do was look to the top of her head to see how she truly felt.

When she arrived, Inaya did a strange impression of dressing like a well-mannered Vanderik lady while speaking with a pirate’s brutal tongue. Slowly, the rigours of the rainforest demanded a change in fashion; her clothes loosened, her hair was tied back tighter, and everything but her expression was changed. Now came changes again. There were a few strands of hair that escaped her ponytail. That was all Alarik needed to see to understand.

That said, the same went for some of the others as well. Edda had gone from exquisitely coiffed curls to a ponytail and back again - or at least an attempt. Her open admiration for Inaya, a woman of strength and agility, was less than subtle, but there seemed to be a falling out.

He ran a hand over his own head. He felt more skin at the top than ever, and the front was a receding line of thinning hairs; a once glorious army in full retreat. Considering how quickly it was moving backwards, perhaps even noticeably during the crusade, he wondered if the other crusaders mused on his own tell-tale sign of stress and thought Alarik was no more or less obvious than the rest of them.

Then, of course, there was Shalmanesser. A mop of hair that looked like it was cut by rubbing two stones together. Now, he’s left as an invalid for Inaya to take care of. Honour and glory in the…

He paused a moment at the thought. He remembered the Vanderik stretcher bearers in the Khorsuli desert refusing to leave behind injured soldiers. Their hands would be so raw from carrying them through the blistering heat that their palms would split. The other soldiers began to colloquially refer to the medics as “red handers”, a moniker that signified a great deal of respect. Perhaps her role of taking care of Shal truly was honour and glory, and not worthy of his sarcastic lament. It might just be the closest to it he’d see out here.

“Inaya,” he called out. “Again - if you need to bring your friend home, we can manage to hunt our meals as best we can. A mission completed beyond the scheduled time is still a mission completed.” Oh, how it felt strange to be offering respite for a Khorsuli that was not in the form of surrender.

“No,” she said flatly. “But… thank you. Truly.”

Alarik nodded. He’d recognized a subtle, begrudging respect from her over the past few legs of the crusade. He felt the same back. Strange, how that works. He’d spent the majority of his career finding as many ways to kill the people that looked like her, and only after a short stretch in the rainforest did he feel a kinship. She’d clearly been a soldier at one time or another. Perhaps that bond is stronger than that of any nation - the tie between two who had lived by the sword, even if the ends had previously been pointed at one another.

His feet felt better now. It was a positive and a negative; acknowledging that fact meant it was time to return to marching, and not a soul in the camp was in the mood. With Shal slowly withering from only consuming liquids as he seemingly refused to chew, Edda slowly realising the recklessness in coming here even if she was refusing to admit it, and Cendric being strangely quiet since entering the rainforest, there was a tension in the air. While each had their reasons, a key feature was the presence, or lack thereof, of the mysterious figure of Majad.

He’d been watching over them so closely from the beginning, and now, like a phantom, he’d disappeared. Still no other Hashadi approached them, but the manner in which Shalmanesser was afflicted - cursed? poisoned? - disturbed the crusade greatly.

As if reading his mind, Farmund took a seat next to him, the log in which Alarik sat sinking slightly into the dirt under his bulk. Alarik noted he still had sight on Edda, as he seemingly always did. Perhaps he wasn’t quite correct with his assessment of some warrior code that united soldiers. He hardly felt connected to Farmund at all. That said, Farmund seemed unlikely to connect with many, save for his one royal charge. “We’ve got to talk,” he said, voice gravelly and serious. Call the man what you wish, but he was certainly consistent.

“Of course,” Alarik said. He’d long taken a stance of listening to the complaints and wishes of the soldiery. It was the fastest way to earn respect with the rank and file. To the brass, it was a sign of weakness. To Alarik, it was a means to do as he always wished; get the job done, and get it done with as few casualties as possible. His men frequently would see things from a different perspective, being as close to the action as they were.

“I believe we’ve been the target of an act of aggression from the Hashadi.”

“Shalmanesser’s… sudden immobility?”

“That would be correct.”

Alarik closed his eyes and breathed out his nose. “There’s a chance of it.”

“I believe the Khorsuli girl. I cannot fathom a reason why she would lie about who attacked him.”

“I’d hesitate to call it an attack just yet. We don’t know the full circumstances.” It was true, but only as true as one can get by bending the facts as much as possible in order to cast doubt. From a practical standpoint the last thing Alarik could afford was a battle against an enemy on their territory with only a handful of people, few of which were soldiers.

Farmund shifted, his armour shaving some of the bark off the tree they sat on. “I believe we can reasonably say we know. I was hoping you would tell us what our plan moving forward is. I doubt they’ll find satisfaction with an attack on just one of us. That was a message they sent. They wish us gone.”

“If they wished us dead, we’d be buried beneath some bog quite some time ago. So we know that’s not the case. Why Majad came after Shal, I…” Alarik racked his brain. “I’ve spent enough hours trying to piece together the motive. Why they’d wish just one of us gone is beyond my understanding. Perhaps they went after a Khorsuli because they believed the Vanderik forces wouldn’t respond to one of their deaths, as opposed to one of our own.”

“I believe it’s fair to suspect that Hilda’s mysterious death may also be of their doing.”

“She was attacked by animals, soldier.”

Farmund shook his head. “Even the Khorsuli found the animals’ actions to be odd, sir. Have you ever seen someone…” He trailed off, but the point was made.

“Let’s say you’re correct. Then what would be the point?” He realised he was divulging far too much. He was the commander of this crusade, and sharing doubts with a subordinate was never in his best interest. Then again, strategizers and sergeants had their men in which to discuss such matters. Perhaps Farmund was due for an informal promotion.

“I have my suspicions,” the big man said. Alarik leaned in, genuinely curious about what he had to say. He’d proven to be more perceptive than his heavy jaw and stony expression would imply.

“All ears.”

“I believe they don’t wish to start a war with the Vanderik. If it seems the rainforest is dangerous, it’ll force us to retreat. It wasn’t a direct, open act of aggression, nor an act of war - rather, it was a fear tactic. They want to scare us into leaving.”

Alarik nodded his head, slowly, in recognition. “That makes a lot of sense. But why would they want to kill us at all? We mean them no harm.”

“I believe the Vanderik people have a reputation, sir.”

Alarik grimaced. He wasn’t wrong. “So we press on, and force their hand. Show them we’re not afraid, and that the Vanderik people don’t back down from threats.” It was Farmund’s time to grimace. He hesitated, clearly having something to say but wary of saying it to a commanding officer. He was one of the few in this camp that respected, let alone understood, the military hierarchy, and this was the one time Alarik wished he didn’t. “Go ahead, speak your mind. I won’t hold your thoughts against you.”

“I would suggest quite the opposite. I believe they’ll whittle us down until we’re incapable of continuing on. By then we would have lost many.”

Khorsuli practising their hit-and-runs. Vanderik fleeing, only to find arrows in their backs. Supplies dwindling down to nothing. Terrible thirst. Hunger. Medical supplies so scarce men were left bleeding across the desert. Red hands. Valiance.

“Sir?”

“Yes, yes, apologies, lost my train of thought. I understand your concerns. However, at the moment, we’ve seen just two casualties. For a mission of this degree of importance for the Vanderik people and for Lady Edda’s reputation, I believe it would be foolish to abandon our path too quickly. There are too many questions unanswered before I would feel right in retreating. We’ll reassess as we press on further.”

If Farmund felt much of anything, his expression was far from betraying it. “Very well, sir. As you command.” Just the slightest twitch was all that showed how desperately he wished to speak. Alarik caught sight of it. Farmund wasn’t the only perceptive one of the two. Before he stood, shifting the log when he relieved it of its burden, Farmund felt the need to try to steer Alarik from what he felt was a coming disaster one last time. “If I could say-”

“That’ll be all, soldier,” Alarik said, shutting him down before he had the chance.

Farmund saluted, and briskly returned to a spot closer to Edda. The creak of the metal of his gear mixed with the ever-present chirping and hisses of the rainforest life around them. Alarik gritted his teeth. It was just a matter of crossing a simple rainforest with no direct enemy. He had to believe he could reach the other side. He had to believe he wouldn’t lose another soldier. The task that was given was to reach the end and return. That was the task he intended to complete, and he wouldn’t leave until it was.